


Kingsman!: A Tumblr Collective

by AnnaofAza



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Kingsman 2 Spoilers, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-07
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-08-13 15:05:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 73
Words: 56,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7980943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because they have to be put somewhere, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "don’t panic, but I think we might have accidentally gotten married"

**Author's Note:**

> These are ficlets too small to stand alone, but (hopefully) amusing enough to repost. These will not be in any particular order; some will be very short, and some will be a bit longer. (And yes, I do write a lot.)

There’s something to be said about getting smashingly drunk at Eggsy’s twenty-fifth birthday party. Harry dimly remembers Roxy doing backflips on the dance floor, Percival puking into a potted plant, Jamal and Ryan taking turns persuading Eggsy to do another round of shots, several young women and men asking Eggsy to do body shots, and Merlin watching it all with a drink in his hand. The revelry had ended when Eggsy had slumped against Harry and moaned for him to take him home, and Harry thought the cab driver did a remarkable job of pretending that they were as sober as judges on the ride back.

However, he certainly doesn’t remember collapsing into bed, fully clothed and glasses crooked on his face, beside Eggsy, who’s now stirring, smacking his lips and groaning at the sunlight streaming through the windows. Harry’s deciding to get up and try to be human when something shiny catches his eye.

There’s a ring on his left hand.

“Don’t panic,” Eggsy says, very slowly, as if preparing for a shout, “but I think we might have accidentally gotten married.”

Upon closer examination, Harry discovers they’re not real gold after all; instead, they appear to be cheap plastic with equally-so stones. When he touches his—dark green—the color begins to shift into a lurid shade of orange.

“Mood rings,” Eggsy explains, then waves a strip of paper at him. “There’s a chart here and everything.” He then sits up, rubbing his eyes and groaning once more. “Ugh, my _head._ Did…did David Bowie marry us?”

“He’s dead,” Harry replies, a bit brutally. “And I don’t recall a thing.”

“Shame,” Eggsy murmurs, then makes an attempt to roll out of bed, but flops against the covers. “Ughhhhhh.”

“Once we can get out of bed and regain some sense of dignity,” Harry says, “we should straighten this out.”

Eggsy’s only response is to fall back asleep.

* * *

“Luckily for you two,” Merlin begins, and Harry’s grateful he’s as serious as if this is just another debrief, “this marriage is not legitimate.” He holds up the certificate and points to the signatures below. “Eggsy signed his _Eggsy,_ and while that is what many call him, it’s not his legal name and, thus, cannot be upheld.”

“Oh, so I cocked this up,” Eggsy says, with a joking shrug of disappointment.

“Besides that, the David Bowie impersonator who pronounced you _tra-la-la_ ed is not ordained. Well, he was, but his license expired two days ago.” Merlin then continues, “And apparently, you were so pleased to be tied together in holy matrimony that you sent the glasses feed to everyone in Kingsman. And by everyone, I do mean _everyone_.” He swiped across the screen of his tablet, and Harry, with dread pooling in his stomach, turned to the screen above the fireplace.

“Hey,” Jack drawls, waving, cowboy hat set at a rakish angle, “why wasn’t I invited to your wedding? I thought I’d at least be in one of the groom’s parties, but oh well. Won’t be the first time the Brits have neglected to acknowledge us.” The camera zooms out, revealing a room full of Statesman agents holding generously-topped pints. “A toast to you two, and we offer our headquarters as a place for the honeymoon!”

“Oh, bloody hell,” Harry mutters, rubbing at the mood ring still on his finger. It’s rapidly turning yellow, and when Harry glances at Eggsy, he seems relaxed, his ring glowing a faint shade of pink.

“That’s not all,” Merlin says. “Wait until you see the one from Germany. I think Amelia already sent you a wedding gift.”

“What is it?” Eggsy asks, at the same moment as Harry groans, “Send it back.”

Merlin clucks his tongue. “Well, since you’re here,” he says, “I suppose it’s time to fill you in on your next mission.” He nods to the screen, and Harry and Eggsy’s profiles appear, under the aliases of David and Andrew Collins. “Gentlemen, you’re a newly-wedded couple going to holiday to Rome, and your objective is to break up an undercover drug ring.” Slowly, a smirk spreads across his face. Congratulations.”

Harry sighs, but when Eggsy grins at him, he can’t help but smile back.

He doesn’t notice when his ring turns purple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The mood ring guide can be found [here.](https://www.bestmoodrings.com/blog/mood-ring-color-chart-meanings)


	2. "I will knock you on your ass if you even think about it"

“So, what’s going on with you?”

“I beg your pardon?” Harry asked.

Daisy rolled her eyes from the couch, putting down her tablet. “You’re not pacing, but you might as well be, since you keep tapping your fingers against your mug and looking towards the door. You also keep glancing at your phone, then at that picture of Eggsy on the mantle, and you’ve been giving me and Mum nervous glances ever since you got here.”

“I’m not breaking up with your brother, if that’s what you’re thinking of,” Harry said, mentally approving of the young woman’s observational skills. Perhaps when Bors retired at last, Daisy could have a shot at his seat; Roxy would enjoy yet another female agent in the ranks, and Eggsy would parade her around the manor.

“I’ll knock you on your arse if you think about it,” Daisy declared, and Harry believed her.

“Well, I’d never,” Harry replied fiercely, hand unconsciously going to his jacket’s pocket.

Daisy’s eyes rounded. “You’re planning the opposite, aren’t you?” She got up, bouncing on the balls of her feet when she approached. “Can I see it?”

Harry obliged, taking the tiny box out and opening it. Inside glistened his father’s ring, sturdy and newly polished. He’d added something new to it: an inscription that simply said _yours_ in beautiful calligraphy. It was simple, yet heartfelt, and Harry hoped Eggsy would like it.

Daisy leaned so close that her nose almost touched it. “Oh, wow,” she whispered. “Are you going to do it when he comes it?”

“Do what?” Michelle asked, walking into the room, then paused at the sight of the ring. “ _Oh_. May I see it?”

Harry nodded, and Michelle approached, holding out her hand. Very carefully, he gave the box to her, and Michelle cradled it briefly in her palm before studying it. He thought that he saw tears briefly surface, but she tightened her mouth and slowly began to smile, looking up at him.

“It’s lovely,” Michelle said, and Harry thought she meant it sincerely. They’d never be best friends, but they’d come a long way from their first meeting. Michelle had been furiously protective when Eggsy first brought him around as more than a work colleague, and Harry had respected that. Quietly, they’d shared tidbits of V-Day’s marks on them, then grandparents’ recipes, and everything turned out all right.

“Thank you,” Harry replied, as Michelle returned the box and ring to him. “I…I’ll treat him right. I know it’s a bit soon, but I can’t imagine anyone else wearing this.”

Daisy let out a soft _aw._ “How are you going to do it?”

“After dessert, if that’s all right.”

“Just give me the signal so I can pull out my phone,” Daisy said, then turned to Michelle. “Ooh, Mum, do you think we can hide it in the pudding?”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea, love; he could choke,” Michelle said, shaking her head.

“A trip to the A&E isn’t my idea of a romantic evening,” Harry replied, eliciting a brief spurt of laughter from Daisy. Although, he admitted, he and Eggsy had plenty of romantic encounters in Kingsman’s medical wing, much to Merlin’s dismay. “Bad omen, all around.”

“All right,” Daisy sighed, “but you _have_ to give a speech, and you _have_ to make him cry. Have you written one? Well, I guess you can give one at the wedding, but a big declaration can’t hurt now, can it? He’s going to be so surprised when you pull out the ring and—“

“Ring?” Eggsy suddenly asked, and everyone startled. His arms were full of groceries, and if this were one of those soap operas Harry refused to admit he liked, Eggsy would have dropped it quite dramatically, hands flying to his mouth, heedless of apples rolling and eggs smashing upon the carpet. But Eggsy was a well-trained spy, and all he did was stop in the doorway, mouth wide enough to admit several families of flies.

Daisy looked at Harry with an apologetic grimace, Michelle looking on with amusement. Harry sighed, then dutifully got down on one knee.

“Well, I might as well,” he said, holding out the ring. “Eggsy Unwin, will you marry me?”


	3. “before you decide to murder me, let me explain…”

Harry never expected Eggsy to kiss someone else.

It was a bright, sunny afternoon, and Harry was returning from a recon mission. He’d alerted Merlin to his return, hoping that he would pass along the message to Eggsy, who was taking over Percival’s shift at the tailor shop after last night’s takeaway found its way into a bin in one of the dressing rooms. Often, the shop’s business was humdrum, especially in the light of V-Day, so a day full of measuring, organizing fabric, and straightening the displays calmed jangled nerves after missions that made one feel three times younger in action and three times older once one got back home.

Harry hoped that once Eggsy was done, he could come back home, enjoy a nice meal, and retire with Harry and JB onto the couch to watch a film or a queued episode of _The Great British Bake-off._

Lost in this fantasy, Harry startled when the driver murmured a _we’ve just arrived, sir_ and smiled understandingly when Harry took a while to understand and get out of the cab. Politely thanking him, Harry headed for Kingsman’s door, preparing to catch Eggsy and ask when his shift would be over so he could time his debrief with Arthur accordingly.

And that’s when he caught Eggsy in the arms of Mark, the _esteemed human rights barrister_ , as Mark’s girlfriend often extolled, not knowing that his twin brother was a member of an independent spy organization.

Harry often longed for an opportunity to lord _that_ over both of them, but sadly, Kingsman operated at the highest discretion and did not give leeway for sibling rivalries.

“Excuse me,” Harry said, raising his voice. “What is going on?”

Eggsy’s eyes widened, then he shoved Mark away, hard enough for him to nearly flip over one of the display tables. It would have been funny if Harry wasn’t going through multiple stages of betrayal, doubt, shock, and _what the bloody hell is going on?_

Mark raised his hands. “Before you decide to murder me, let me explain!”

Harry crossed his arms, raising one eyebrow. “Let’s hear it, then.”

“ _He_ kissed me,” Mark began, as Eggsy protested, “It’s Tristan’s fault!” He looked miserable, explaining, “Tristan called me and told me you were coming into the shop, so when I saw you—er, I thought it was you—I just…I…wanted to greet you. And apparently, he’s not you, and you’re not…what is this? Is he…did I kiss _Colin Firth_?”

“Ah.” Harry began to understand. Tristan must be having a good laugh right now. “It’s all right, Eggsy, I know what you mean, and no, it is not Colin Firth. It’s my mere dullard of a twin brother.”

“You never told me you had a brother,” Eggsy said, then looked towards him, then Harry, then back again. “Shit, that’s weird. I’m sorry, uh, to both of you.”

“I admit it was somewhat of an interesting experience,” Mark replied dryly. “However, I am in a…well, I don’t know about  _committed_ as of now, but I do love the person I’m seeing.” He nodded at Harry. “I just wanted to ask that friend of yours who had a kid for some tips and perhaps have a bit of a catch-up. We haven’t spoken since…since that rage…day.”

Harry noticed how Mark’s eyes flicked to the starburst scar above his left eye. “I’m afraid my friend is currently ill, and I have to talk to my boss at the moment. But how’s tomorrow evening sound?”

Mark checked his phone. “That sounds all right. Well, I better leave you to it; you’re probably late, knowing you.”

“Ah, yes,” Harry admitted. “Good to see you, Mark.”

“Also you.” Heading for the door, Mark gave Eggsy a brief nod. “Er, also you.”

Eggsy waved, rather embarrassed, as Mark left, pressing his phone against his ear as he walked down Savile Row. “So…uh, sorry. Again.”

“It’s really not your fault,” Harry said, feeling a bit amused now that he knew what happened. “It have been worse.”

“Yeah, if he had an eyepatch and turned out to be using me in order to steal Kingsman secrets.” Eggsy smirked, then stood a little on his toes to kiss him.

Harry kissed him back, hands splayed, one between his shoulder bones and the other on the small of his back. Eggsy smelled of Harry’s cologne—Harry had long ago stopped scolding him for stealing it out of the bathroom cabinet—and of the air freshener Andrew liked to spray around the shop, and his fingers settled on Harry’s hips. A few of the stray employees, plus a slyly grinning Andrew, stopped to sneak glances, and one of the customers quite openly gaped, but Harry couldn’t give a damn. Short of a great crowd of gunmen storming into the room, nothing would stop Harry from kissing Eggsy, nothing—

His glasses chimed, and Harry inwardly sighed, pulling away. The current Arthur was far less indulgent of Harry’s consistent tardiness and would be far less so if he tapped into his feed and discovered the reason why Harry was waylaid.

Eggsy looked up at him, lips quite pink and eyes a bit glazed. “Gentleman don’t kiss like that,” he said.

Harry smirked. “Oh, yes, they fucking do.”


	4. "bitch better have my money"

“Bitch better have my money,” Dean grouses, flicking more ash carelessly to the ground from his cigarette. The flat smells like smoke, mixing in with the sickly-sweet smell of marijuana and the foul stink of the dishes piled up in the sink, the clothes strewn across the floor, and the spilled beer across the couch cushions. Eggsy’s briefly glad his mum and sister were away from this, then panic seizes his chest when he remembers he doesn’t know where they are.  

“He will,” Eggsy says, as loudly as he dares. He tries his best to sound confident, despite his too-fast heartbeat: “He will have your money, swear down.”

His stepdad scoffs, settling back down on the couch with a sneer, and hands one of his mates the pack of Rizlas. “He better, Muggsy, or I’ll have your ‘ead.”

“I did what you want,” Eggsy declares, clenching his fists in his jacket pockets. “So, you better let Mum and Daisy—”

“I don’t think so.” Dean points a grimy finger at him. “They try to run next time, I won’t just make you work for me to earn your keep and just keep them locked up safe like pretty birds in a cage. I’ll make sure the girls don’t get off so easily, and I’ll make you _watch_. Understand?”

“Crystal,” Eggsy mutters, not daring to say any more. His left eye is still swollen and tender, his ribs press together uncomfortably underneath his clothes, and his throat still hurts from Dean twisting the chain that had Dad’s medal attached to it around his neck.

“Don’t think I didn’t see your hand in it, Muggsy.” Dean’s head then jolts up at the knock on the door. “Answer it, you useless shit. Go on.”

Eggsy forces himself to move, stepping aside so Dean’s new customer can make his way into the room.

“You have it?” Dean asks, hand traveling to his belt in a warning. Behind him, Rottie reaches behind his back, towards the gun Eggsy knows he keeps in his trousers.

“Of course,” Harry says, in his crisp, cool accent. He looks perfectly calm. “Let me open it for you.”

He sets down the briefcase, the gold clasps shiny and polished, and opens it, displaying dollar bills neatly wrapped in bunches, like in the movies. Dean’s goons crowd around, eyes wide and fingers greedy, but Dean only surveys it calmly—though, the familiar gleam in his eye doesn’t fool Eggsy.

_This has to work,_ Eggsy prays, _this has to._

“It’s all here?” Dean demands. “Nothin’ fake?”

“It’s all there,” Harry confirms, “and it’s all genuine.” His gaze then drifts, idly as planned, around the room, casually settling on Eggsy. “And I have more, if you give me something more than just the drugs.”

Dean follows his gaze and smirks. “You want Muggsy?”

“It’s _Eggsy_ ,” Eggsy snaps defiantly, glowering at Harry as if he’s never seen the man before, just another posh bastard who thinks he can own something—or someone—just because he happens to have a silver spoon up his arse. “And I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

“You are if our valuable customer pays the right price.” Dean dismisses him with a wave of his hand. “How much?”

Harry names an amount, then Dean counters with something higher, and Eggsy shifts in his seat as the two men begin bargaining. Rottie looks over at Eggsy, teeth bared in a leer, and Poodle sneers wordlessly, not needing to convey the fate that lies ahead for him. Eggsy glares back, jaw clenched and fists clenching on his lap.

Finally, Harry names an amount that both are satisfied about, and with a hand full of cash, it’s done.

“Go on with the gentleman, Muggsy,” Dean drawls, smirking when Eggsy doesn’t get up. “Move your arse, make it good for something, come on.”

Eggsy still doesn’t move, and snarling with irritation, his stepdad raises his hand, palm open—

Harry grabs Eggsy by the arm and _pulls_ , hard enough to have Eggsy safely out of harm’s way, ignoring how Dean nearly topples towards his right side from the remaining force. “You _will_ listen to me, young man,” he says, grip tightening. “Understand?”

“Fuck _you_ ,” Eggsy snaps, mindful of the almost gleeful snickering behind them. “Fucking piece of—”

“That’s quite enough from you,” Harry retorts, dragging him towards the exit. “After all… _manners maketh man.”_

“Got you, Galahad,” a female voice replies, just as Harry neatly ducks into the cab waiting for them down the street. 

When safely in the car, Harry turns Eggsy’s face towards him, then carefully settles both palms against his cheeks. “Are you all right?”

Eggsy puts one hand on Harry’s knee, noticing his own knee vibrating frantically, even as the car drives away from Dean’s flat, going, going, gone. The knot in his chest begins to loosen with each passing realization: the number worked, the plan was went down perfectly, he’s out of there for good. 

“Let’s go rescue my mum and Daisy,” Eggsy manages. “And I’ll be all right.”

[ ](http://annaofaza.tumblr.com/post/145981350238/five-word-prompt-meme-bitch-better-have-my)

  * [Jun 15, 2016 3:36 pm](http://annaofaza.tumblr.com/post/145981350238/five-word-prompt-meme-bitch-better-have-my)
  * [31 Notes](http://annaofaza.tumblr.com/post/145981350238/five-word-prompt-meme-bitch-better-have-my#tumblr_notes)




	5. “time passes slower without you”

When Eggsy is away, Harry waits.

He’s reminded vaguely of the stories his parents used to read to him and of the programs on the telly about the princess staring longingly out castle window, counting the days of her hero’s return.

Except, of course, Harry’s not royalty. Real royalty, that is, despite his title.

And he doesn’t just sigh and gaze off into space—well, not often. Harry _works_. He signs tedious documents, reads utterly boring reports, debriefs agents, meets with Merlin, negotiates with other branches, and goes home to an empty house, only to repeat the cycle again.

It never used to bother him this much, but two months of a warm body in the mornings or late evenings, sleepy and soft, has spoiled him. The house seems too quiet; there’s a lack of boisterous laughter, clangs of pots and pans, loud singing, beeps of a video game, or low moans and sighs. Whenever Harry sits down or goes to bed, he’s reminded of the empty place beside his.

Everything seems so frustratingly slow, and normally, Harry doesn’t mind it, but this isn’t a lazy Sunday afternoon with Eggsy sitting idly at the kitchen table, letting Harry prepare their breakfast. This is Harry walking around the house, turning on the radio or telly to break up the silence, and trying not to see possessions that remind him of Eggsy’s absence: his favorite black jacket, his slightly-crumpled white hat, his horrible winged trainers. 

In the mornings, JB prances at his feet, barking for Harry to feed and walk him, but spends the rest of the day laying in his doggy bed, chewed around the edges, clearly waiting for his master to come home.

“I know,” Harry says to him one evening, stretched out on the couch and feeling bereft without Eggsy’s feet in his lap or head on his shoulder. “I miss him, too.”

Merlin laughs and calls him maudlin, but forwards him progress reports throughout the day, which Harry devours like a favorite book. He drinks in Eggsy’s snarky observations, clever fingers sneaking a bug onto a mark’s clothing, and strong hands closing around the Rainmaker’s handle. Not for the first time, he wishes he could see Eggsy’s face, not just the view Eggsy’s seeing through his glasses.

The days pass, slower and slower, until Merlin tells him that Eggsy completed his mission and should be home around midnight.

Harry, later, pointedly does not acknowledge the staring at the Kingsman landing base. He’s not subtle, no, waiting for the plane like some soldier’s wife, but this is the end of Eggsy’s first deep undercover mission. Harry was there to see him off, and he’s going to be there to see him walk down the ramp, safe and sound.

The young man who emerges from the plane is exhausted, hair slightly flat on one side from sleeping on a seat and legs nearly stumbling while taking their first steps. He’s dressed in striped braces and a white shirt and dark slacks, carrying his Rainmaker in one hand and a beat-up duffel in the other. There’s a slight cut on his cheek, his eyes have dark circles, and his clothes are rumpled, but none of that matters.

He’s Eggsy, and he’s _here_.

“Arthur,” Eggsy greets solemnly, the image of a perfect gentleman descending the ramp, but once he reaches Harry, Eggsy drops his gear and throws his arms around him, time seeming to reset and begin at last. 

 _“Harry,”_ he breathes into his neck, holding him so tightly at first that Harry momentarily fears for his lungs. Eggsy smells like stale sweat and sleep, but underneath, is the scent that Harry’s come to know as Eggsy’s. It makes him want to wrap Eggsy up in the sheets so the bedroom no longer smells like just one person lives there. 

“Eggsy,” Harry murmurs, hands resting easily on Eggsy’s spine and back of his head. His hair is soft underneath his fingertips. “Are you all right?”

“I’m good. What about you?”

Only Eggsy would ask if Harry’s fine, considering he’s been out in the field for weeks, and Harry’s been stuck safely behind a desk for equally as long. It warms his heart. “I am, now that you’re here.”

“You missed me.” Eggsy sounds almost shy, but clearly pleased. “I missed you, too.”

Harry draws back and looks at Eggsy. He’s _beautiful,_ and there’s so many things he wants to say, but one in particular still hasn’t made it past his lips. “I—” 

He then realizes everyone is still staring, then clears his throat to evoke murmured apologies and hurried scurrying. Eggsy, still in his arms, flushes a little, but bends over to gather up his things.

“Shall we go home, my king?” he asks, a bit playfully, hoisting his bag over his shoulder and picking up the Rainmaker by its curved handle. 

Harry thinks of turning on the lights in the empty house, calling their favorite takeaway place, and eating curry in front of the telly, then places a hand on Eggsy’s shoulder. “We shall, my knight.”


	6. “the fuck? who are you?”

In the end, Harry did not choose Lee Unwin for his candidate.

Instead, he picks someone else, someone without a young wife and a tiny child, and later congratulates James Spencer for becoming Lancelot.

After that, Merlin, without the drudgery of attending to nine snotty-nosed and snotty brats, resumes his duties as Harry’s regular handler, much to the relief of the substitutes who wailed, _“Oh, no, Galahad, please no”_ or cursed, “ _Listen to me, damn it!”_

So, life moves on, and Harry sticks Sun covers to the walls and gets drunk at three o’clock in the morning and scrubs away the dried blood underneath his nails in the sink adjacent to Mr. Pickle. He apologizes to Merlin for yet another pair of broken glasses and tests out another device from the German tech department and plucks out bullets from his suit on the plane ride back to Britain. He lays in wait for his target to approach for nearly three hours in freezing cold, flees from the burst of sound and blistering heat of a collapsing factory, and takes punches in his jaw and delivers three right back.

“When will you stop rushing head-first into firefights?” Merlin grouses when Harry wakes up in the medical wing for the fifth time in a month.

Harry only smiles and lifts another ice chip from his cup, ignoring the persistent fog in his mind. “Never,” he says, flicking it into his mouth and crunching.

“You shouldn’t be so reckless,” his friend insists. “Giving your life to save another is well and good, but don’t be so quick to do it.” He then sighs, eyes very serious. “Do you need to—”

“If you send me to therapy, you will only be wasting everyone’s time,” Harry archly replies, setting the cup down. “I have no desire to end my life. I value it greatly.”

“Not enough to be _careful._ Fuck, Harry, those bullets nearly took your head off. Not to mention the way you _tossed yourself off a cliff_ —”

“There was a well-placed ledge,” Harry sniffs.

“But what if it hadn’t been there? Jesus, Harry. I like you more than anyone else in this bloody organization, so I’m asking you to show some restraint.” Merlin shakes his head. “I’d like to see you come home from the next mission without a scratch, for once.”

“I’m afraid not. Hazard of the job, you see.” Harry sighs. “Besides, Merlin, I have no one to come home to. Except for you—though you must bury Mr. Pickle with me if I go.”

“Harry Hart being sentimental? How many drugs did they give you?” Merlin rolls his eyes, standing up to exit the room. “Get well soon. Arthur already has something lined up for you.”

* * *

A few weeks later, Harry’s assigned to a low-key, undercover mission. His objective is to pose as a veteran taking the tour of a Marine camp and figure out which officer is passing along secrets to someone in the KGB. Harry goes under his own name as an ex-soldier and is greeted by several handshakes and _sirs,_ along with an invitation to observe morning drills.

Happy to have a prolonged opportunity to place more bugs, Harry agrees. He attends dinner, trying to size up each officer, and politely listens to complaints and praises of various cadets.

“Unwin, though,” the man next to Harry comments, with a jaw like a bulldog’s and eyes like a crow’s, “insolent little whelp. Damn good firing skills, though.”

“Comes from a military family,” another says, taking a long sip of tea before continuing, “Sweet kid, though, calls his parents every chance he gets.”

Someone mutters something like _chav,_ and Harry, before taking a bite of the distinctly unpalatable substance masquerading as a stew, makes sure to impress upon the gentleman how very rude he is to make such a statement, then claps a bug on the man’s shoulder.

* * *

Early rising in the barracks is not anything he remembers fondly, but Harry, even years later, jumps out of bed at the blare of the loudspeakers and begins tucking his blankets into neat, hospital corners before realizing he’s alone in the room.

“Fuck,” he mutters, glancing at his watch, “late.”

It appears he’s missed breakfast—not that he particularly was looking forward to porridge that could be used as brick mortar—but his stomach growls audibly, reminding him that he’d eaten only enough of dinner the night before to be polite, which granted, was not that much. Someone told him morning drills began at seven, which was—

Five minutes from now. Bugger.

Harry dresses and brushes his teeth and makes an effort to smooth down his hair, helplessly glances at the tornado-like state of his room, and races to the exit as if gunmen were at his tail.

But immediately, when he steps out the door, someone runs smack into him, causing Harry to slam a palm against a nearby wall to keep from falling onto the floor.

“Do watch where you’re going, young man,” Harry says, and the youth glances back, startled. His shirt is loosely tucked in, shoelaces messily tied, and his fatigues looks like they’ve been worn for two weeks in a row. His hair is mussed, porridge dried at a corner of his lip, and his eyes are harried with dark circles underneath.

“The fuck? Who are you?”

Harry dearly wants to reply, _Someone who has better manners than you,_ but is interrupted by a yell of “Unwin! Oi, where are you?”

“That’s me,” Unwin says, then scurries off without so much as an apology.

Harry, once the man is out of his sight, rolls his eyes. “Rude,” he mutters to himself, and hurries along.


	7. before the wedding, kingsman 2

“Harry, that is truly hideous.” Merlin rubbed his temples. “I thought I was so lucky when I dissuaded Eggsy from wearing that awful orange tux, but now you have to wear a Pepto-Bismol waistcoat, of all things.” 

Before Harry could protest, Roxy stepped in: “It’s his wedding day.” She rolled her eyes, giving Harry a supportive smile. “Let him wear what he wants. Besides, Eggsy would marry Harry in a chicken costume if that was what made them happy.” 

“I draw the line at dressing up as an animal,” Eggsy declared, walking into the room in a full military dress. He then whistled, looking Harry up and down. “ _Very_ nice.”

“Eggsy, you are not supposed to see groom before the ceremony! It’s bad luck! Can’t you spend twenty-four hours apart?” Merlin groused. 

The couple looked at each other, amused. “No,” they both said in unison. 

Merlin threw up his hands. “If your ceremony is interrupted by another villainous attack, don’t come crying to me!” Closing his eyes, Merlin sighed, “Now if you excuse me, I need to check to see if Jack has stopped that infuriating American agent from taking another bite out of the wedding cake.” 

“Don’t worry about him; weddings made Merlin a bit tetchy,” Harry told them, once the quartermaster had stormed off, kilt swinging angrily behind him. “This hullabaloo is quite different from _his_ wedding.”  

Eggsy and Roxy’s jaws dropped. “Merlin’s _married_?” Eggsy exclaimed. 

“To whom?” Roxy demanded. 

“Oh, you’ll see,” Harry said, with a mysterious smile. “If Merlin gets enough alcohol in him, he’ll be waltzing across the floor with him.” 

“Him?” Eggsy asked. “I assumed he…I dunno, Merlin and Ginger…”

“Oh, no, they can’t stand each other,” Harry said, clearly enjoying himself. “I remember back in 1992 - "

Suddenly, there was a burst of swearing and Jack shouting, “Someone get that dog!,” along with what sounded like several trumpets being trampled and wings flapping. “The doves!” they heard Merlin groan. _“Fuck!”_

“I better see what this is all about,” Roxy said, amused, then glanced over at both of them as she stepped out of the room. “Why don’t you two…practice your vows or something?” 

“Rox, you’re the guv’nor,” Eggsy declared, and Roxy gave him a quick wink before hurrying out. 

He then turned to Harry, cheeks turning a slow, steady pink when he caught Harry’s gaze. “What?” Eggsy asked. 

“You look very handsome.” 

“I always look handsome,” Eggsy retorted cheekily. 

“True. But today…” Harry stepped forward, putting both hands on Eggsy’s forearms and taking in the whole effect. The uniform emphasized Eggsy’s broad shoulders and lean muscles, but it wasn’t bespoke, according to his tailor’s eye. Harry could see it had been altered. “Where is this uniform from?”

“It’s my dad’s,” Eggsy said. “Mum said he got married in this, too, and we thought…oh, no, Harry, don’t go apologizing now.” 

Harry let out a shuddering sigh, drawing back. “Your mother isn’t thrilled about this whole thing, is she?” 

“Well, she hadn’t exactly pictured my wedding like this at all,” Eggsy admitted. “But she’s not going to stand up and yell _I object!_ during the ceremony, especially since she’s walking me down the aisle. She just wants to see me happy.” He placed a hand on Harry’s cheek, smiling like he hadn’t in months. “Harry, you have no idea how happy I am to have you in my life, and - “ 

“It’s time!” Roxy exclaimed, looking a bit flustered as she threw open the door. “Come on, Eggsy, you got to get to your mum, and Harry’s got to get up on the altar before everyone thinks you’re running late again. Come on!”

Harry took Eggsy’s hands in his and squeezed. “I love you.” 

Eggsy kissed him. “I do, too. Now, let’s get married.” 


	8. "rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated"

Eggsy has seen a lot of spy films, so he’s pretty familiar with this scenario.

It’s almost cliche and pretty depressing, being strapped down to a hospital bed at the mercy of someone holding a large as fuck hypodermic needle, but before Poppy had snatched the glasses off his face and neatly broke them in a half with a triumphant smirk, Eggsy managed to send a distress signal to Roxy. If there was anyone who could save his arse, it would be her.

“I thought the blast at your quaint little base would have wiped you all out, but I guess I was wrong,” Poppy now says, forehead creasing in irritated likes. “You’re like cockroaches, are you?”

Eggsy grins. “We’re pretty hard to get rid of, yeah,” he snarks. He knows he shouldn’t bait—Merlin’s tried and failed to get the snark out of him—but it’s all he has left. Stripped off nearly everything but his trousers, words are his only weapon. He can’t run or wiggle out of these bonds, but one thing Eggsy’s learned in the past year that time is essential. Time couldn’t be bought or bartered with, but if it was manipulated enough, it gave him time to think or clear his mind.

He had to think of a plan, and see if Jack is all right. Even though Charlie is a right wanker, he didn’t make it to the top three recruitment ranks by sheer snobbery alone. Charlie plays dirty, and although Jack does, too, the American agent has his occasional moments of sentimentality for human life.

Charlie doesn’t.

Poppy rolls her eyes. “And I’ll enjoy crushing you under my foot just as much.” She holds up the shining glass tube filled with something that looks like honey. “While my lackey takes care of that cowboy upstairs, I’m going to run a few tests on you before I unleash it into the public.”

Eggsy keeps pulling at his restraints, hoping that they’d slacken. Cuffs might have been easier to get out of. Then again, with nothing but his skivvies, he didn’t have a great chance of escaping them, either. “But I haven’t signed a consent form. Where are my rights?” He gives her a slightly charming smile, but makes sure to show her his canines. “Can you really destroy this handsome face? Because, let me tell you, a princess told me that it was the eighth wonder of the world. Well, that, and—”

“I can see you underneath all those mouthy remarks. The best ones at those are the emptiest.” Poppy gives him a simpler of mock pity. “You’ve lost too much, and you’re trying to sell the image of someone who has it all together. Well, this—” she runs just the needle’s tip along the soft inside of his elbow, “will strip it all away. In fact,” the point presses in, and Eggsy grits his teeth, willing himself not to make a sound, “this will make you an emotionless shell. A blank slate, if you will, and completely robotic. Shouldn’t be hard for you.”

“Fuck you,” Eggsy snarls, just as her thumb presses firmly down on the plunger.

He’s got to fight whatever he’s coming, and piecing together what she’s said and what Intel Merlin and Ginger have collected, Eggsy’s prepared for a complete reboot of his mind and body. He has to remember who he is, everything, both the good and bad.

He’s the oblivious little boy who took the shining medal with his chubby fingers, the tight-mouthed teenager who wore the medal on a chain and his heart buried deep down so no one could see, the trembling-voiced young man holding the medal in his fingers and saying the three words that changed his life.

He’s the hopeful, heart-on-his-sleeve new recruit of a secret organization, flying through the tests and exams and stealing into a hospital room at night. He’s the one who screamed in defiance against giving up the man who offered him a second chance and slurred a lot of soppy words after three martinis in the same man’s kitchen. He’s the man after the gunshot, who placed his heart in said man’s hands, who saw it being crushed, who saw it being ripped apart, too.

He’s the agent with the name of Galahad, one of the youngest in the organization, who is trapped here, now, screaming in the small room with tears running down his cheeks, nails biting into his palms, trying to remember—but it hurts—it hurts so much that he wants to give up—but he can't—he has to pull through, like always—

 _My name is Eggsy Unwin,_  he thinks, desperately. _I got to remember that, and that I don’t want to fail at this. I don’t want to go out, not when—_

“Oh, you’re a stubborn one,” Poppy murmurs, and Eggsy fights, fights against the cold in his veins, seeping into his mind—

Suddenly, the heavy metal door rattles, and Poppy, startled, jumps at the noise.

“What—”

 _Roxy,_ Eggsy thinks drowsily from his now-convulsing body, but the figure strolling out of the shadows with a perfectly-tailored suit and hair parted on the left side, just a little over the eyepatch, is not the agent he had called for.

“You see, rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated,” Harry Hart says, right before he attacks.


	9. a smattering of what kingsman 2 may or may not look like

“And then he said to me - what, bruv?” 

Eggsy winces when he checks the notification flashing on his wristwatch. Merlin coded it as _urgent_. “Aw, fuck. Sorry, bruv, got an appointment…in about ten minutes?”  

“At the tailor shop _again_?” Jamal demands, while Ryan asks, “That’s pretty far away, Eggsy. How are you gonna get there?” 

“I’ll figure it out,” Eggsy calls, running out the door and seeing a familiar yellow car just down the street. 

“Perfect,” he mutters to himself, pleased, and activates the lock-picking software on his cuff links. 

* * *

“Merlin,” Eggsy says, strolling into HQ, suit and accent perfectly crisp and sharp. “What have you got for me?”

“Certainly not my sanity, Galahad,” the quartermaster sighs. “You do realize that Kingsman is supposed to operate at the highest levels of discretion? Driving a stolen car through the busy streets of London isn’t what I call subtle.” He taps his fingers against the desk. “As _well_ as slowing down enough to give the two-fingered salute to your stepfather’s goons.”

“Just making sure that they know I’m in town.” Eggsy cracks his neck, winking at the man through his glasses. All and all, the mission had been easy: stop a few baddies from planting a bomb near the Big Ben. Eggsy’s hair’s still in its neat part, and all that remains of his evidence in foiling an evil plot is the slight soreness of his knuckles. “So, next mission?” 

“Nothing of late; everything’s pretty quiet.” Merlin sighs, contented, and Eggsy nods in response. The world’s still in a fit state after V-Day, and it’d been hell for Eggsy, Roxy, and the few knights that had survived, scattering all over the world to quickly prevent or stop chaos from destroying their hard work. “Roxy’s just coming home from Sweden, so maybe you two should take the opportunity to get some well-deserved rest.”

* * *

“Said hi to Tilde for me?” 

Roxy rolls her eyes, elbowing him in the ribs as they both stroll out of HQ, oxfords making imprints on the neatly-mowed lawn. It’s quiet tonight, and most stragglers are going home, except for Merlin and Percival, still debriefing about the latter’s mission from Spain. “You think I had time to pop in between fleeing for my life so I can tell some princess hello? I thought you two text.” 

“Sometimes,” Eggsy replies, with dignity, “well-wishes are best delivered in person.” 

“Then the next time,  _you_ go to Sweden.” Roxy smirks again, eyes both amused and annoyed. “Honestly, Eggsy, your Bond stereotype is just cliche.” 

“Cliche? How dare you! I’m only acting like a gentleman spy.” 

“By consuming enough martinis to make your sweat smell like gin and shagging all sorts around the globe?” Roxy holds up her hand before Eggsy can protest. “I’m not judging you, Eggsy, but…can’t you slow it down? Just a bit?”

“Look, Rox, I’m fine.” 

“Saving the world was easy, but living after it is harder.” Roxy glances at him briefly, eyes showing sympathy and concern. “You’re not the only one who’s lost someone, you know.”

Eggsy gives her a tired smile. “I know, Rox.” 

* * *

He heaves himself through the door, bending down to pat JB on the head, muttering, “Good boy,” and walks upstairs to get to the bedroom. Passing the office, he catches a glimpse of red walls with new covers of The Sun and briefly steps in, turning on the light. 

His trainers are scattered on the floor, near the window, while the desk is sloppy with papers. A half-full glass of whiskey sits by the laptop, and Eggsy reaches for it, downing it in one gulp. 

For a moment, he just stands there, staring up at the walls, until his phone rings, and Eggsy spends a few moments talking with his mum about Sunday dinner in a few days and cooing over his sister and her progress in school. When he hangs up, he glances around the office again, looking a bit more closely at the first one in the upper right-hand corner:  _Hearts of Darkness Revealed! V-Day: List of the Missing and the Dead Inside!_

Eggsy throws himself into bed without getting undressed, and rolling over, tries to sleep. 

* * *

It’s another blood-pumping day after the next, with only a few moments of calm. Eggsy visits his mum in her new flat, plays with his little sister, and tries again to go out for drinks with his old mates. He slips into HQ and trains, punching training dummies and flying through obstacle courses and chatting with some of the other agents. 

It’s when he’s discussing a paired mission with Percival while walking outside on the grounds when the older man freezes. 

“What’s that beeping - shit! Eggsy, get - “

And the world explodes all around them. 

* * *

“Say, why didn’t you tell me that the cabs could go underwater?”

Merlin raises his eyebrows. “Because you would take all the cabs for a submarine ride, lad, and don’t you deny it.” 

Their light-hearted banter is feeble at best as they make their escape, but it keeps them a little cheerful, only for a bit. Roxy’s asleep in the corner, face streaked with tears and suit stained with smoke. Eggsy’s side is hastily taped with what they could find, and Merlin’s typing with only one hand. 

Some agents are like them: lucky. Others are not. 

* * *

They manage to get to shelter, but not before they nearly get killed by a _giant fucking weapon._

Amelia now sighs, shooting the destroyed remains a disdainful glance. "It wasn’t my idea,” she insists. “Some people thought it would be funny to have a weapon shaped like a—”

“Giant dick?” Eggsy blurts out. 

“A _frankfurter_ ,” Amelia stresses, looking pained. “It was still in the developmental stages.”

Roxy stares at her. “Isn’t the point of Kingsman to be of the highest discretion? What’s discrete about a giant…hot dog?”

“The robot dogs in Singapore were cooler,” Eggsy says. “What’s next for the German tech department? Sauerkraut bombs?”

Amelia drops her face into her hands. “I liked you both better when you were drowning.” 

* * *

“I just don’t understand,” Eggsy says, nursing the gunshot graze on his right shoulder in the Statesman HQ. Americans are so _trigger-happy._ “So, we have a tailor shop back home, and Americans get the distillery front?”

“The epitome of American classiness,” Merlin replies, with a twitch in his right eye, still looking at the screen of his new tablet. His arm is bandaged in a sling, courtesy of Jack. 

“But…Ginger and Jack? Are you saying that our code names are after the Knights of the Round Table, while theirs are…after whiskey or something?”

“George Washington made the first legal whiskey in America,” Roxy says, with a shrug, looking around the room. They could all hear the machines and barrels moving, as well as smell fermented grain, which was not at all pleasant. “And besides, the American branch was created around the Prohibition era.”

“But the cowboy thing—”

“I think that’s a Jack thing,” Merlin interrupts. “He grew up in Texas, and his family owned a cattle ranch.” He smirks at Eggsy. “You were looking very interested in the cowboy boots and holster getup, Galahad. Should we start changing our uniform?”

“Ha,” Eggsy retorts sarcastically. “Looks more comfortable, but no.”

* * *

“Fucking Charlie,” Eggsy curses, still feeling effects of the tranquilizer and having the shit being beaten by him by Charlie and some weirdo with a robotic arm. And he thought it was all over with _Gazelle_. “And fucking Poppy. What kind of name is Poppy, anyway?” 

“An alias,” Ginger replies. “Someone we’ve been keeping an eye on.” She crosses her arms. “We don’t usually like working with other branches, but since you’re here, you might as well help us stop her.”

“What’s she looking for?” Roxy asks. 

Ginger winces. “That is what we’re trying to find out, but our guess? Take over the world.” She points to the screen, scrolling through components and weapons and blueprints. “Here’s her…lair, and here’s what she has. It seems like she’s very, very interested in plants. Particularly…poisons and hallucinogens.” 

Eggsy briefly winces, remembering how easily Charlie had knocked him out. He can still see the faint shadow of a familiar man with hair parted like Eggsy’s and a bespoke suit with glasses, lips saying his name while the wound in his temple dripped blood. 

“That dosage really numbed you. Almost made you fall asleep,” Merlin now says, and beside him, Jack nods, shooting Eggsy a sympathetic look.

“Oh, like _Wizard of Oz_ ,” Roxy says, then explains: “The poppy field, you know? Poppies are used to stop pain and also put you to sleep. But not cause you to hallucinate, right?”

“Exactly,” Jack says. “And it looks like Poppy is experimenting with biochemical weaponry, creating these…visions of people we lost. People we love.” He sighs, shaking his head, looking uncharacteristically serious. “And after V-Day, it’s harder than ever.”

“But what’s the point? Making people see that?”

Ginger sighs. “I guess it’s an easy way to control.” 

* * *

“But I _saw_ him—”

“You heard Jack, Eggsy,” Merlin interrupts. “It’s part of Poppy’s concoction. When HQ exploded, that was her test, and when the particles were absorbed into—”

“I’ve hallucinated before, guv, and it did _not_ feel like that!”

Merlin begins, “Eggsy, I know you miss him.”

“And I _know_ he’s here, Merlin.”

“This isn’t the time to play scavenger hunt for a man who’s been dead for over a year.” Merlin doesn’t shout, but the severity of his tone is enough to startle Eggsy. “We need to stop Poppy, rebuild Kingsman, and god knows what will happen next.”

Eggsy desperately wants to shout back that Merlin doesn’t understand, that he’s well-aware of his mission, that this isn’t all some part of a messed-up thing going on in his head. But with one look at the quartermaster’s face, Eggsy knows he can’t make the words come out.

And not just that—the last time he’d argued with someone like this was the last time he’d seen that person really alive. He’s lost Harry. He can’t risk losing Merlin, too.

“Okay,” Eggsy says, quietly. “Okay.”

* * *

“Don’t you just want to give up?” Poppy mocks. “To give in? To no longer feel _pain_?”  

“Yeah,” Eggsy says, body weak from fighting and mind still fuzzy from the double-dose of poison. Jack’s administering the antidote and getting the victims out, and Roxy’s fighting a wildly-swinging and swearing Charlie. Merlin and Ginger are in their ears, ready to give help. “But not like this. Not from _you_.”

Poppy only laughs. “All right, then. Try and stop me. But I have so, so much in store for you, little knight.”


	10. eddie the eagle: undercover

_“No way.”_

“Come on, Rox,” Eggsy pleaded. “You went up into hydrospace - hyperspace - whatever…the point is that you’ve gone much, much, _much_ higher than this!”

“I think I’ve fallen to my death enough to last a lifetime,” Roxy replied, shaking her head furiously. “It’s not just falling, Eggsy; it’s plummeting ninety meters and smashing against the hills on the way down. People get _paralyzed_! Eddie the Eagle had to have plastic surgery multiple times, and broke his jaw and - well, he broke a lot of things multiple times! After Berlin, I’m not inclined to break anything else.” 

“But you had Amelia to play nurse for a few months,” Eggsy pointed out, to which Roxy blushed and smacked his arm. “Please, Rox, just trade this mission. Percival was going to go, but he had to get himself exploded! Well, nearly.” 

“You jumped from high buildings for fun. You’re crazy.” Roxy sighed. “Look, Eggsy, this mission is essential, and you get to live the high life if you get on the Olympic team. Besides, more importantly, we need to catch the drug smuggling ring, and the only way you can do that is to compete in the Olympics. We’re lucky we have an in.” 

“Coach Perry.” Eggsy groaned. “Like the platypus. Honestly.” 

“I think he looks nice. Besides, he’s nearly fifty. Your type.” 

“Shut up.” Eggsy was beginning to regret telling his best mate about his crush on none other than their esteemed Arthur, aka Harry Hart, aka the love of Eggsy’s fucking life. “This means I won’t see Harry for a while, either.” 

“Olympic training takes work.” Roxy patted his arm. “Look, if you come back in a coma and Harry sits by your bedside and delivers an emotional confession, I’ll record you.” 

* * *

Eggsy, after a bit of a makeover - which included a hair dye, some incredibly elaborate makeup, and practicing yet another version of a British accent - already regretted his listening to Roxy. Looking down the hill, he felt his teeth chatter and his legs shake, not entirely from the cold. 

“Surely you’ve been in tighter spots,” Perry had said, when Eggsy had watched footage of ski jumping in front of him and closed his eyes the entire time. “I was a former Kingsman, lad, and let me tell you: this is easy.” 

“I’d rather charge a hundred gunman.” Eggsy declared, but his coach only laughed and replied, “Not likely to happen. Now, let me see you on the slopes, champ, five-thirty in the morning.” 

It was brutal. It was inhumane. Even Skype calls from his mum and sister, Roxy, and Harry weren’t comforting him in the least. Merlin’s advice had been a gruff, “Don’t die,” and Harry made things worse by looking into the camera with worried eyes and saying, “Come home safe, Eggsy.” 

Roxy never failed to reiterate every time that she was glad that she had not been picked for his mission. 

Eggsy was lonely, even though he got along better with his fellow trainees than with the Kingsman ones. It already had been nearly four months. He shared a flat with Perry, who snored like a freight train but made delicious eggs in a basket, and tried not to think about how his bed was no longer a room away from Harry, that Harry wasn’t the one who was making him breakfast in the morning, or that Harry didn’t smile at him fondly after every training session and offer to make him a cuppa. Perry, like Merlin, was a tough-love sort of man; call Eggsy spoiled, but he missed the praise. 

“You got to stop,” Perry finally told him, after they returned from the slope, where Eggsy had fallen a grand total of seven times. It was a miracle that his legs weren’t broken, or worse, his spine injured. Perry had sent for the medical team to bandage his sprained wrist and check his jaw, but all Eggsy now wanted to do is lie down for a week. Or months. Or a year.

“Stop what?” 

“Looking like you want to punch me all the time. I know undercover missions are brutal, all right? But you can pretend that you like me just a little.” Perry paused, an amused smile on his face. “And not scream while going down the slopes.” 

“That was one time,” Eggsy replied, with as much dignity as he could. 

“But you don’t scowl at me just once. It tends to hurt a man’s feelings when you glare at them like you wish they were someone else.” Perry grinned when Eggsy flinched. “Thought so. So, who is it out of your Skype conversations? The young lady or…the older gentleman who can wear the hell of the suit?” 

Eggsy groaned.  _“No._ Not you, too!”

“I was a spy, boy. You think I don’t have eyes?” Perry rolled his own, then patted him on the arm. “Look. You’re homesick, you’re lovesick, whatever. But you have to qualify, okay? So far, you’ve only met the requirement five times out of…a lot.”

“So, I suck.” 

“So, you’re not focusing.” Perry rubbed his forehead exasperatedly. “Eggsy, I think you’re one of my worst students in a while. A good while. But while I was talking to Harry about this mission, he believed in you. He said you could learn and transform and exceed expectations. So far, even though you’re in good shape, I’m not seeing that young man Harry praised to the skies.” 

Eggsy lowered his head, slightly ashamed. “I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t apologize. Just show me that you can do it. I think you can, really. The first competition you can qualify for and prove to the board that you can make it in is in a few weeks. If you can land in the top 30 percent or the top 50 competitors, you qualify. Okay?”

Eggsy nodded. “Okay,” he said. “But you have to be a bit nicer.” 

“No. This is the nicest I’ll get. That’s it. Now, go to sleep. You’re waking up at five tomorrow. I’ll even make you breakfast.”

* * *

Eggsy nearly placed in his first competition, _almost_ , and just barely scraped up a place in the second-to-last one. Roxy whooped when she found out, his mum clapped and Daisy cheered, Merlin gave him a solemn nod, and Harry smiled and said, “Congratulations, Eggsy. I’ll see you at the Olympics.” 

He got smashed in a bar with several of his fellow competitors that were also celebrating. Even the coaches loosened their leashes and their jackets and joined in, and it was rather amazing to see a skinny Swedish man chug a pint and five shots like drinking water. Eggsy himself drank so much that he started singing along to one of the catchy pop songs playing on the radio with the whole bar. 

Perry also drank, and alcohol, it turned out, made him a lot nicer. He and Eggsy even sang the whole of “Thrill Me” together on top of one of the tables, and when they got thrown out as a result, they simply flagged down a cab and laughed the whole way into the flat. 

The first thing Perry did was crack open another bottle of whiskey, and he and Eggsy got out some cards and began playing. One thing led to another, and strip poker, which Eggsy had never played before and Perry once three times (apparently with _Merlin_ ), seemed like a very good idea. 

“Ha! Flush!” Perry bragged, spreading out his cards on the table, and cursing, Eggsy stripped out of his trousers. Infuriatingly, Perry was only down a shirt, while Eggsy was nearly stripped down completely.

“Cheater!” 

“So not. Better than you.” Perry grinned, then looked Eggsy up and down. “Looking good.” 

Eggsy grinned. For some reason that he couldn’t remember, he’d put on his Kingsman glasses. “Not bad, yourself, guv,” he slurred. 

Perry _didn’t_ look bad. He had dark hair and fit and tall and warm brown eyes. Eggsy found himself staring into them. They reminded him of a familiar pair, and before he knew it, he was touching Perry’s cheek, cradling it. “Come on, thrill me,” he half-sang, half whispered. “Come on, kill me…” 

“Feel my blood rush ‘round my body,” Perry sang back, a little out of tune and cupping a hand around Eggsy’s cheek. “Can’t hold it in, can’t fight it…” He paused. “I can’t remember the rest now.”

“Let’s put it on,” Eggsy declared, reaching for his phone and, after a few tries, had it playing on Youtube. Both stood up, sort of swaying to the beginning, and using clenched fists as mics, sang drunkenly and soon were stomping around wildly on the hardwood floor of the flat. They were spinning and jumping and laughing, and Eggsy wondered, rather blearily, why they weren’t getting noise complaints.

Halfway through, Perry sat down, out of breath. “Come on, thrill me. Come on, kill me…Can’t hold it in, and I can’t fight it,” he was gasping. “Can’t turn away and can’t hide it…” His hands were clasping Eggsy’s shoulders, and before Eggsy knew it, their foreheads were knocking together, their lips very, very close. “Come on, find me; come on, find me…”

Their lips met in a surprisingly chaste, gentle way, and Eggsy closed his eyes, burning in his chest that had not a lot to do with alcohol. The flat was warm from the heating unit, but his whole body felt _hot_. He could feel blood pumping so quickly through his veins and heart that it almost hurt. 

Both of their lips were chapped from the cold, and it sort of stung, but Eggsy pressed back. The music was still playing in the background, the beat skipping in time to his heartbeat.

Perry’s hands still gripped his shoulders, and Eggsy put his arms around his waist. He remembered Perry lifting him, making him ski down that stupid wooden hill…how surprisingly  _strong_ he was. He remembered Perry laughing and jumping along with him over sticks and onto wobbly straps with him. He remembered Perry cooking breakfast in the mornings, pushing him, and cheering him on when they finished a competition. 

But he didn’t want _this_ , Eggsy realized. He didn’t want Perry. 

He wanted Harry. 

Eggsy gently took his hands off Perry’s waist and shoved him back. “No,” he said, firmly but gently. “No.”

“Yeah,” Perry grunted, stumbling back. He looked panicked and regretful and almost horrified. “Shit. Shit. I’m sorry.” 

“No, no, we were drunk. That’s all. And you’re not bad-looking, but…” 

“I know. God, I’m…” Perry winced. “Ugh. That…was not smart.” He sighed, rubbing his head and stumbling towards the sink for some water. “Let’s sleep this off, okay? We can skip practice tomorrow. Both of us aren’t going to make it down there, anyway.” 

“Yeah. Yeah.” Eggsy nodded. “No hard feelings?”

“None.” Perry then paused, eyes widening. “Uh, Eggsy…” 

“I know, I’m in my skivvies. I’ll put on some clothes.”

“Uh. No. You have your glasses on. Are they recording?” 

“No! They’re…” Eggsy took them off, then stared in horror at the green, blinking light. “Oh, shit.” 


	11. fake marriage, real feelings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written for [Elle's](http://elletromil.tumblr.com)birthday!

Eggsy looked up at the waitress. “We’ll have two specials, but Henry likes his steak medium-rare, yes?”

Harry did his best to smile at the young man across the table, though it wasn’t hard at all, truth be told. “Yes, dear, medium-rare. And Gareth his an enormous sweet tooth, so we will take the chocolate ganache to split with our meal.”

“Oh, darling,” Eggsy crooned. “You know me so well.” He took Harry’s hand and squeezed. “It’s our honeymoon,” he told the waitress, voice slightly lowered. “We just got married two days ago.” Harry felt himself flush red when Eggsy batted his eyelashes in his direction.  

Their waitress looked slightly nauseated. “Bless you for coming out in public. Anything else?”

“I think the house wine?” Harry asked, glancing at the menu, but really looking at their target across the room. The man was chatting on his cell phone, face turned away, so Harry couldn’t read his lips. All they needed to do was put a bug on him, but the greeter had stopped them from coming in without an intention to eat there.

The newlywed cover had been entirely Eggsy’s idea, and Harry thought it both a cruel and unusual twist of fate. Here was Eggsy smiling at him as if they were a normal couple in love, and here was an old fool who could only return it under false pretenses. Henry may love Gareth, but it was all pretend. Henry would revert back to Harry once the mission was over, and Gareth would become Eggsy, a bright, young man who certainly had no reason to continue his flirtations with an old, half-blind man.  

“Wine, yes,” the waitress sighed. “I shall get that for you right away.” She took their menus and turned around, heading over to where an elderly dowager was flagging her down.

Eggsy grinned. “Nice, huh?” He still hadn’t let go of Harry’s hand.

“Clever trick,” Harry replied, trying to force his rabbit-fast heart to beat a little slower.

Eggsy blushed. “Thanks. I…I…hope you don’t mind? It was the first thing that popped into my head.”

“Not at all,” Harry said. It was painfully true. “Well done, with your acting.”

The young man’s smile turned down at the corners. “Yeah. Acting. Listen, Harry - ”

“Henry,” Harry quickly corrected. “Goodness, _Gareth_ , you know better than this. You’ve spent many a lesson about maintaining cover; that was a juvenile mistake.”

Eggsy took his hand away, and Harry immediately missed the warmth, the roughness of the callouses. “Right,” he muttered petulantly. “Right, yeah.”

Harry briefly winced. He hadn’t meant to berate Eggsy so harshly. “How will we plant the tracker?” he asked.

His protégé frowned. “Well..” he hesitated. “We have to get close. I should have asked for the booth next to him, but it’s occupied now. Maybe if he gets up to use the loo, one of us can do it.”

“Perhaps.” Harry snuck a glance at the man. He’d stopped talking on his phone and was now crossing his arms impatiently. “Remember what our intel said? About him being a finicky eater? It’s likely he’ll complain to the waitress, but if he goes to the kitchens - ”

“If we make him angry enough…" Eggsy nodded discretely. “Look, the bloke has his food. Let’s see…”

Before Harry could say anything, the young man had gotten up, taking the salt shaker with him and sliding it up his sleeve. With his other hand, he waved at the waiter near the mark, asking, “Can you point me to the loo?”

“Near the front desk, sir,” the waiter politely said.

“You mean over there?” Eggsy pointed, just as the target glanced down at his phone. Harry held his breath as Eggsy tilted his arm slightly downwards, presumably dumping a lot of salt into the man's salmon dish. “Yeah? Thanks.”

Eggsy strolled in that direction, winking quickly at Harry, as the mark took a bite and nearly spit it out right on the table. He then took another bite, perhaps hoping it would taste better the second time, but alas.

“Disgusting!” Harry could hear the man utter, once the waitress came back with their plates. “Waiter! Direct me towards the kitchens! I wish to speak to the cook!" 

As the nervous waiter gestured towards the kitchens, a few of the restaurant patrons looking on, Harry took the opportunity to quickly take a bite of his own food, pretending to grimace. Getting up, he followed the mark, ducking behind another customer, and tried his best to seem inconspicuous.

By some bad luck, Harry missed the step that sloped downwards in the hallway, and the mark let out a grunt of surprise when Harry collided into him.

"Oi! What are you - ”

“Henry! There you are, love; I was just, uh, waiting for you!” Eggsy, like a miracle, appeared at his side, clapping the mark firmly on the shoulder. _Tracker placed._ “Sorry about that. Honeymoon. You know how it is, right?”

The target stared. “Ah, no.”

“Single?” Eggsy went on, prattling, playing the role of a careless, oblivious-in-love husband. He looked at Harry, who caught the gaze and suddenly _realized._ “Ah, too bad. I don’t know what I’d do without my Henry here. Gosh, we met in 2015, and - ”

“Thank you, but I best be going now. Er, congratulations?” he looked at them both suspiciously, but when Eggsy wound his arm around Harry’s waist, the man continued his journey towards the kitchens, muttering about clingy couples.

Eggsy held his smile until the man was well around the corner. “Well. That was - ”  
Harry kissed Eggsy, so suddenly that their teeth briefly clacked together, but they soon got into the rhythm of it, lips brushing tenderly. Eggsy’s arm was still around his waist, and he brought his other arm around to encircle Harry in an embrace. Moaning softly, Harry deepened the kiss, fingers moving upward to grip the back of Eggsy’s head. Eggsy, sighing, clenched his fingers into Harry’s suit, wrinkling it, and Harry opened his mouth to moan again, when he then realized where they were and what they were doing.

There would be enough time to kiss Eggsy, explore what made Eggsy sigh. They had time, and more than enough time to go home for the evening and kiss in the comfort of Harry’s house.

“We are definitely talking about this later,” Harry gasped, pulling away and trying to straighten his suit. “But we have to leave before the mark comes back.”

Eggsy mock-pouted. “But we didn’t even get to finish dinner!”


	12. teacher/single parent au

“Ah, Mr. Unwin,” Harry said, trying to hide how much he was pleased to see the young man walk through the classroom door. “Are you here to pick up Daisy?”

“That’s right. I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner; there was a uh, fight, at the place that I work at, and I had to state a statement to the coppers afterwards—also, there was traffic and—”

Harry held up one hand, giving Eggsy an understanding smile. “Don’t worry, Daisy’s amusing herself with one of the science kits. She’s building a volcano right now.” He pointed to the table near the sink, where the little girl was busily measuring dish soap with a look of intense concentration. Harry saw Eggsy smile at the scrunched-up nose and the tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth, walking over to hug her.

“Daisy, girl, how are you?” Eggsy crooned, scooping her up with an exaggerated grunt. “Did you miss me?”

“Yes,” Daisy said solemnly, “but Mr. Hart read to me and got me some snacks and showed me how to make one of these vol—vol—volcanos?”

“Exactly,” Harry said, with a brief smile, as Daisy insisted on being put down so she could add the red food coloring left over from dyeing Easter eggs last week. Both of the men watched her work, squeezing drop after drop. Chuckling when Daisy decided to add half of the purple bottle, then the yellow, Harry turned to face Eggsy. “Your face—do you want me to get the first aid kit?”

Eggsy shook his head. “Jamal put some antiseptic on it before I left. Thanks, though, but I’ve been through worse.”

Harry didn’t doubt that. “All right, then. By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you if you’d like to put her in an accelerated program next year. There’s one with Mr. Merlin and one with me, and Daisy, I’m sure, can keep up.”

Eggsy flushed dark red when he asked, “Is there…is there an additional fee? I don't—that is, I’m not sure—”

“There’s no additional fee,” Harry explained. “There are extra field trips, but we can certainly fundraise.” He knew better than to suggest he’d gladly pay for Daisy himself; Eggsy had his pride, something that Harry had respected ever since Eggsy brought in Daisy on her first day, head held high when he told Harry he worked at the Black Prince and that, no, he didn’t have a spouse, but he’d been reading to Daisy every night and trying to prepare her for classes. She even knew how to count money.

Eggsy now nodded. “I’ll definitely consider it. By the way, I’m sorry about making you stay later than you normally—”

“Nonsense, did you think I was just going to leave her here? Besides, she’s a good kid.” Harry smiled again when Daisy prepared to add the vinegar, looking at them both with a barely-contained grin of excitement. “Go on, don’t worry about the mess.”

With a squeal, Daisy poured, and the volcano bubbled and gushed a strange reddish-purplish color. A lot of it dropped onto the tray underneath the volcano, but a few made its way down the table and into the carpet. She clapped, and Harry and Eggsy followed suit.

“Good, Daisy!” Eggsy praised. “That was amazing, love. Why don’t you clean up and wash your hands, and we can go home?”

Daisy pouted, looking at Harry pleadingly, and Harry gently patted her on the head. “Listen to Eggsy, dear. I’ll help.”

In no time, the volcano was washed out in the sink and laid on some paper towels to dry; the small mess on the table was quickly taken care of with a few wet wipes; the food dye, baking soda, dish soap, and vinegar was put away into the cabinets; and Daisy was scrubbed of the scent of vinegar and artificial dyes.

“Guess we better head out,” Eggsy said, zipping up Daisy’s little green jacket. “Thanks for looking after her.” His stomach growled, and Eggsy flushed red again. “Excuse me, Mr. Hart.”

“Harry,” Harry gently corrected. “Call me Harry. And…” He hesitated before saying, “I haven’t eaten in a while myself. Do you want to grab some dinner? I know a good Italian place a few blocks away.”

Eggsy smiled, clearly surprised, but replied, “I’d like that.”

They walked out the door together, with Daisy, in between them, holding each of their hands.

And if Daisy playfully brought their hands together once, no one needed to know.


	13. nanny/single parent au

“Harry, there’s no shame in getting some help, and it’s not like you’re broke,” Merlin pointed out. “Work isn’t easy, ever, and now that Percival…” 

Throat closing, Harry shook his head, still holding an eight-year-old Roxy Morton in his arms. Her uncle had managed to save half of England from a deadly bomb threat, but in the process, had lost his life to a sniper waiting on the roof. Harry knew Elaine, who was in charge of handling the agent’s mission, still blamed herself for missing it, and James, Percival’s partner, was still deep undercover in Portugal. 

Harry didn’t know if James would be told now, or who would let him know, but for now, he had custody of a child. He’d never had siblings or even babysitted, but Percival was his best friend and put him in charge of his adopted daughter if James was unavailable. 

Merlin continued, “I found someone who can meet the necessary qualifications. He even has a little sister who can play with Roxy, if both of you’d like. He can’t know about Kingsman, obviously, but he’ll be starting in a few hours.”

“You hired someone already?” Harry demanded. “Without my permission?”

“You’d think I’d let someone in your house without a background check? I even interviewed him over Skype; he seems like a nice lad. Give him a chance.” 

* * *

Roxy was crying. She was usually a very serious young lady, but the recent loss of her father and the absence of the other did not contribute to a content environment. 

She also was refusing to eat. 

Harry tried his best, but he honestly couldn’t say anything that could comfort her, least of all himself. What made things worse was that Arthur demanded his presence in Bulgaria in twenty-four hours, and Harry was expected to leave Roxy with a virtual stranger when he left. 

Hearing a knock on the door, Harry got up, hoisting Roxy onto his hip, and opened the door, hoping it was Merlin. 

It wasn’t.

“Hey,” the young man said shyly. “It looks like you need some help?”

Harry stared. He didn’t look a day over his mid-twenties. What had Merlin been thinking?

“Hello,” he said, remembering his manners and stepping aside to let him in. “I’m Harry Hart, and this is Roxanne.” 

“Roxy,” the little girl said indignantly, sniffing. She’d stopped crying and was looking at the man curiously. The winged shoes might have been the source, or his bulky jacket with monogrammed gold plates, but Harry didn’t care. He even thought it charming, before he briefly shook his head. What _was_ he thinking?

“Cool name.” The young man stuck out his hand to her, and Roxy solemnly shook it. “I’m Eggsy. How do you feel about pizza and pakouring?”


	14. knocked on the wrong door au

Harry was awakened by a knock on the door, and that alone makes him reach for his umbrella as he stumbled out of his bed.

His neighbors don’t come to call, and if they did, Harry was certain that they wouldn’t come calling this late. Merlin would have called him before arriving, as would Percival, though he couldn’t think of a reason for them dropping by in person. If it were an emergency, Merlin would have sent around a cab and a call via the glasses, and Percival hasn’t turned up at his doorstep this suddenly ever since his niece, Roxy, was disowned and disinherited by her parents.

Perhaps it was a burglar—a very polite, if rather stupid one.

He was still exhausted from his mission in Malta, but he can and will toss someone all the way to America, since they disturbed his rest. Nearly tripping over Mr. Pickle, who’d followed him with a jingle of tags, Harry opened the door slowly, preparing for an attack.

The only thing awaiting him was a young man with eyes as tired as his own, holding a white plastic bag crammed with carry-away boxes. Harry smelled tomato sauce, basil, cheese, eggplant, and beef, and frowned in confusion.

“Who orders Italian at one in the morning?”

The delivery person—Eggsy, going by his name tag—shrugged. “Apparently Mr. John Barlett. That you, mate?”

Harry shook his head. “I’m not he.”

Eggsy then flushed. “I’m sorry, I must have gotten the wrong address.” He pulled out his mobile, swiping across the screen, and groaning when he saw that he’d mixed up the numbers.

“You’re in luck,” Harry said, looking over his shoulder. “That house is just down the street. It’s the one with the light blue door and garden.”

“Thanks, bruv.” Eggsy gave him an apologetic smile, slipping the phone back into his pocket. “Sorry for disturbing your rest.”

Harry waved his hand. “It’s quite all right.” Mr. Pickle nudged curiously at the boy’s bag, looking for the source of smell, and Harry scooped him up, cradling him to his chest.

Eggsy beamed and made a soft cooing noise, and Harry tried his best not to smile. “Who’s this?”

“Mr. Pickle, pleasure to be at your service.” Harry lifted him up to give Eggsy a closer look. “You can pet him, if you like.”

Reaching out tentatively with his free hand, Eggsy gently stroked the terrier’s head, laughing when the tiny pink tongue lapped at his fingers. “He’s adorable; my sister would love him.”

“You don’t have a dog?”

Eggsy shook his head. “Our place don’t allow pets. Is, ah, Mr. Pickle your only dog?”

“Oh, yes, but don’t be fooled by his face. He can be a terror when he wishes to be. Last week, I caught him stealing bacon right off my plate. He’d jumped up right on the chair.” Harry ruffled the dog’s fur. “Wanker. But he keeps my feet warm at night.”

Eggsy chuckled, then looked at the food and cursed. “Shit, I better go. But uh, I’ll see you around? Later?”

Harry smiled. “I certainly will.”

“Good.” Eggsy grinned back. “One question, though: why did you come to the door with an umbrella?”


	15. cop/person getting a speeding ticket au

“Excuse me, sir, but you were going nearly three times the speed limit in a residential area.”

Harry flashed the cop a charming smile, although he was inwardly bristling in impatience. He’d lost his target, and even though Merlin could track the car by using the city’s cameras, Harry wasn’t going to be able to catch up and gather the intelligence he needed to break up an arms exchange in Peru. “Can’t you just let me off with a warning?” 

He lowered his voice, letting the next words roll off his tongue, sweet as honey: “I hope you can understand, _sir._  My work, I’m afraid, is rather important.” If in any other situation, he would have skimmed his fingers up along the other man’s wrist or played with the fingers now holding onto a pad and pencil. Harry could clearly sense the man’s - G. Unwin, according to his name tag - attraction.The red flush creeping up his neck and ears was telling. 

The man—younger and in a uniform that emphasized his muscled thighs and broad shoulders—blushed further when he saw Harry looking. “You were driving nearly three times over the speed limit. I’m impressed, bruv, don’t get me wrong, but you can’t just do that. Kids cross the road here a lot, see?” He pointed to the _Slow: Children Crossing_ yellow sign nearby. “I’m going to write you up.” 

“Galahad, target reaching the outer limits of the city. I sent out Percival, but I don’t know if he’s going to be able to catch him…”

“No!” Harry swore, forgetting momentarily about the cop. 

“Yes,” Unwin said, tone hardening. “I don’t give a fuck if you’re rolling in money, and by the look of your suit, you have plenty enough for a ticket. With that attitude, I might just send you to traffic school as well.” 

“Sir,” Harry interrupted, done with being polite. “If you excuse me, I have a business matter that requires my attention.” He then pulled out his business card, used for emergencies only, and with one look at the K-emblem, the man paled. 

“Oh,” he said faintly, looking both panicked and starry-eyed. “I didn’t…you’re a…I thought it was just some dumb story around the station. James Bond, yeah?” He laughed nervously. “Wow.”  

“Something like that.” Harry adjusted his watch, wondering if he should fire his amnesia dart. “If you excuse me?” 

“Oh, yes,” Unwin replied, stuttering slightly and blushing an ever deeper shade of red. “Yes, I’ll let you…uh, save the world?” 

Harry smirked. “Indeed. If all goes well, I’m going to go down to the station.” 

“Please don’t report me; I swear I didn’t know - “

“To visit you. Public service deserves a reward of its own, yes?” 

Unwin met his eyes and grinned widely. “I say it is. And you’ll have to pay the ticket somehow, yeah?” 

Harry, this time, reached out to place his hand solemnly on Unwin’s arm. “I can think of a few ways to make up for my misconduct.”

“Harry…!” Merlin’s voice in his ear groaned, loud enough for the cop to hear. “The mission?” 

“You heard the man. Go save the world,” Unwin said, stepping back and waving goodbye with a cheeky grin, and Harry waved back, just before stepping on the gas.


	16. domestic established relationship

The clanging of frying pans being unearthed from the cabinet always wakes Eggsy, and groaning, he rolls over and buries his face into the pillow. 

His limbs ache, and not from the wild, night-long sex Merlin always accuses them of having when they both show up late to HQ, but from racing for his life in Spain. Rooftop chases are not as fun as they are in movies; even though Eggsy has an advantage of years in pakouring, he still feared about falling to his death several times. (Not to mention that getting shot at tended to raise the stakes.)

Last night, Harry drew him a nice, hot bath with a lot of bubbles and sweet-smelling oil, then got into the tub himself to massage Eggsy’s aching muscles. Eggsy’s getting used to being pampered by Harry, and it gets easier with each slow, tender touch. Harry can easily find his sorest spots and weaken Eggsy into a shivery pile of goop. Eggsy once joked that forget roughing them up to get people to talk; Harry should give them massages instead.  

JB now begins pawing at the blankets, and Eggsy groans again, but affectionately rubs the pug’s head. “All right, all right, hold on.”

Eggsy pulls on his trousers and shirt, then throws on something to keep him warm. It’s an old jersey from Harry’s university days, and although Harry clucks at him for stealing his clothes, Eggsy knows Harry likes seeing his name written across Eggsy’s shoulders.  

Slipping into his trainers, Eggsy hurriedly runs into the washroom to quickly brush his teeth and freshen up, then whistles for JB and bounds down the stairs.

Harry is, as always, at the stove, already whisking eggs into a small bowl. He’s in his robe and slippers, and his hair hangs in loose curls over his face.

Eggsy pecks his cheek, then pulls him in for a proper kiss, making sure to scrunch his fingers into Harry’s curls. Harry sighs against his mouth, returning the kiss with a decisively un-gentleman-like nip to Eggsy’s lip, then quickly breaks away to pour the eggs into the frying pan.

“Awake already, old man?”

“Who’s the old man?” Harry asks, faux-offended. “You wouldn’t get up until noon unless someone woke you. Then again, you can sleep through an earthquake.”

“That was one time, and it wasn’t even a big earthquake.”

Harry presses a brief kiss to Eggsy’s mouth, teasingly ducking away when Eggsy tries to chase after it. “Hurry up. You can have more when you come back. Don’t take too long, or I’ll eat all the eggs.”

It’s a running joke that Eggsy hates eggs, unless they’re poached over English muffins with hollandaise sauce. It had been the first egg dish he’d actually liked, and Eggsy admits it might be because eggs with hollandaise sauce had been part of Harry’s first breakfast he’d cooked for Eggsy, back before they fully knew what they meant to each other. He still remembers Harry laughing at Eggsy’s surprised expression when the yolk dripped down his chin, and Eggsy, from that point on, wanted this: breakfast at the kitchen table every morning, Eggsy piling away home-cooked food, and Harry laughing, looking at him with unmistakable fondness.

Eggsy still can’t believe he’s got that. Still can’t believe Harry had been in one of Valentine’s cells, bullet removed and head wound treated for “experimentation” after V-Day. Still can’t believe that Harry had thrown his arms around Eggsy’s shoulders and murmured, _“I’m so sorry, so sorry,”_ into his neck. Still can’t believe they got to patch up what happened between them before Kentucky—and also been given a second chance to make things right.

Eggsy takes JB on a quick jaunt around the block. Hardly anyone’s up, except for a few who are making an early start to work and Mrs. Braddock, who’s fetching the morning newspaper. She waves to Eggsy, cajoling him to bring himself and Harry over some Sunday for tea and biscuits, and Eggsy accepts, hoping that she’ll make another banofee pie that Harry loves, as well as some lemon cakes.

It’s chilly, so Eggsy zips up the jersey, telling JB to hurry and get business done so they can go inside.

Luckily, JB finishes quickly, and soon rushes into the house, snorting and panting. Harry gives a little groan from the stove when the pug jaunts straight onto the couch, while Eggsy laughs and manages to unclip the leash, setting it on the coffee table.

“Your glasses are on the counter, next to the keys,” Harry calls out, opening the fridge to pull out little plastic containers of fruit.

Harry’s ham-and-veggie omelet and Eggsy’s eggs on English muffins with Hollandaise sauce are on separate plates on the table, with all the silverware set up and two cups of tea. Eggsy’s stomach rumbles, and he smiles when Harry offers him a roll from a silver serving tray. Eggsy plucks one and stuffs half of it into his mouth, letting the remaining part warm his chilled palm. 

Harry smooths down Eggsy’s unruly locks with one hand, clucking, “Look what the wind has done to your hair. It’s supposed to storm a little today.”

Eggsy looks out the window. He can already see gray clouds looming in the distance. “I guess I better take an umbrella.”

“And dress warmly, too. I picked up your new overcoat yesterday; it’s hanging on the coat rack.” Harry kisses Eggsy’s cheek, pulling away to start unlooping the apron straps. “Fry the bacon, all right? I need to still get dressed.”

Without being told, Eggsy also pops two pieces of sourdough into the toaster and cranks the heat up. For some strange reason, Harry likes his toast almost burned, and the bacon to sit on the toast until the grease soaks into it. He also likes spooning blueberries into his omelet, and honestly, Eggsy finds it a little disgusting, but it’s so _Harry_ that he almost finds it endearing.

Harry, just when Eggsy’s adding the last of the blueberries to the omelet, comes down the stairs in a white button-down and navy blue slacks, with two bespoke jackets draped over one arm. His glasses are perched on his nose, and his hair is perfectly parted down one side, not a curl in sight, much to Eggsy’s consternation. But Harry has his gun holsters on, and Eggsy feels his mouth dry just a little at the sight.

“Harry,” Eggsy breathes, wiping his fingers on a nearby towel so he can touch him. “You look good.”

“As do you.” Harry smiles, squeezing Eggsy’s shoulder. “Come now, let’s eat.”

At the table, Harry reads the news on his tablet, while Eggsy simply digs in. They chat a little about their schedule today, what Harry reads from an article, and ideas on what to get Percival for his birthday next week.

“Roxy’s giving him hand-rolled truffles and a first edition of one of his favorite books,” Eggsy reports. “I bet Merlin will give him some sort of gadget. What do you normally get him?”

“Whiskey,” Harry replies. “Something old and rare and ridiculously strong. You can always write your name on the tag if you can’t think of ideas.”

“Joint present?” Eggsy asks. “Fuck me, we _are_ a couple, aren’t we?”

Harry raises his eyebrows. “I assumed that when we said something along the lines of _I love you_ and began sharing a bed, we’d been that way ever since. Did I perhaps misconstrue it all?”

Eggsy sticks out his tongue. “You know what I mean!”

Harry only smirks.

They enjoy eating and bantering—and flirting—until Harry and Eggsy’s glasses beep in unison. It’s a message from Roxy.

“You two,” she says, voice wide-awake and audible from the tiny speakers, “Merlin told me to say that Eggsy’s needed for a recon mission this morning, and you’re due for another meeting in an hour, Harry.”

Harry sighs. “Thank you, Roxy,” he politely says, before turning off the glasses to say empathetically, “ _Fuck._ It better not be with Armando.”

“He’s not that bad.”

“He. Talks. So. Much.” Harry groans. “He somehow makes what should be a thirty-minute conversation into a two-hour one. No, not a conversation, since that implies that _I_ get a word in edgewise. Every time I’m with that man, I miss the field even more.”

Harry still goes out on missions, but they’re far in between and usually not very dangerous. Eggsy knows Harry hates being trapped behind a desk, but since Kentucky, Harry’s reaction times had reduced, along with his motor skills. He can still be deadly—everyone recounts the incident where Eggsy got kidnapped for three days in an underground base in Scotland and when Harry charged in with an arsenal of Kingsman weapons and a stolen sword—but Kingsman needs an Arthur.

And Eggsy needs Harry.

Eggsy now leans over and steals a quick kiss. “At least he’s nice to look at, yeah?”

“I’m not looking at anyone now that I have you,” Harry says so casually that Eggsy’s heart gives a quick leap. “Also, we have debriefing when you get back.”

“I’ll bring takeout. Indian or Thai?”

“Thai.”

“Chicken satay, pad see ew, and Thai tom yum,” Eggsy recites. “And I’ll pick up a dessert after recon. Depends where Merlin send me.”

“If you go to Greece again, get me some baklava,” Harry teases.

“Extra pistachios, I know.” Eggsy looks down at his plate, sighing when he realizes there’s nothing left. “I guess we better get ready. Shame I can’t wear your sports jacket to HQ.“

Harry glances at it wistfully. “Alas, it doesn’t match the standards set by Kingsman. But it looks better than you than it ever did on me.”

“Flatterer,” Eggsy accuses, beginning to stand up and clear the plates.

“I got those,” Harry says, handing him one of the jackets he’d carried from upstairs. “You need to change into your oxfords and run a comb through your hair.”

“It’s just going to get messed up in the field anyway,” Eggsy sighs, but runs up the stairs, two steps at a time.

In record time, he’s back, and quickly helping Harry put the dishes and silverware into the dishwasher. Both of them are usually content to let the dishes set in the sink, but Harry put a stop to it after he came home early and saw JB, who'd somehow gotten up on the counter and was enthusiastically licking some sauce and crumbs off one of the plates. “We can leave them when we’re both home and can keep an eye on him,” Harry had decided. 

The pug now watches them lazily from the couch, tail wagging when both of them head towards the door.

“Stay,” Eggsy orders, slipping into his overcoat, the one Harry got him for their first Christmas together, and sighs at the soft wooly insides. Harry fixes the collar, pressing a kiss to Eggsy’s forehead before opening the door.

“Ready?” Harry asks.

“Ready,” Eggsy confirms, taking his hand, and together, they step outside, where their cab is waiting for them.

It’s time to start the day.


	17. in which there are valentine's day mishaps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (not V-Day, guys, just...the regular Valentine's Day)

“A message for you, sir,” one of Merlin’s minions says, dropping it on Harry’s desk and practically running off. Harry can distinctly hear a peal of laughter before the footsteps fade.

It’s in a plain white envelope with familiar handwriting that resembles chickens having a seizure more than anything else. But Harry can still decipher: _To Harry of my heart._

A foolish grin appears on Harry’s lips before he can rein it in, and he reaches for the letter opener, which also doubles as a throwing dagger. Percival gave it to him for his birthday five years ago, and James supplied the matching stationary and envelopes, which, if activated, could be used as a fast-acting poison to the unfortunate receiver.

Sometimes it pays to have secret agents as gift-givers.

Inside is a card, with Eggsy on the front in nothing but an apron, holding a skillet of bubbling eggs. He’s grinning cheekily at the camera, and Harry feels a rush of affection and desire, quickly opening the card before he can begin fantasizing about all the different things he can do to Eggsy in that apron back home.

The message inside reads _You make me over-easy ;)_ with a _Love, Eggsy_ scribbled at the bottom. Harry smiles, running a finger carefully over the words. Eggsy’s love of puns surpasses his own, and he suspects that, especially today, he’s going to get an earful of word play that involves eggs and hearts. Not that he minds, of course, though he’ll pretend to. After Eggsy comes back from his mission with Roxy, Harry intends to sweep Eggsy away and wine and dine him at a nearby dinner theatre.

He looks at the card a bit longer before slipping it into its envelope and opening the front drawer of his desk. It’s already getting a little cluttered with necessary files and keys and the like, but more recently, photos from Eggsy, who went on a shutterbug spree after Roxy gifted him with a Polaroid for his birthday. There’s multiple ones of Michelle, Daisy, Merlin, Roxy, Percival, other agents, and, of course, Eggsy, who liked to write captions on all of the photos. The most recent one was of Roxy and Eggsy posing in front of a Broadway theater, a smirking Tilde sandwiched between them, and black Sharpie scribbled over them, proclaiming, _We’re reliable with the LADIES!_

Harry tries not to roll his eyes, carefully sliding the envelope and card underneath a holiday shot of him and Eggsy, arm-in-arm, in front of the big Christmas tree in the main square, with Daisy laughing in the middle. He remembered Daisy taking several blurry photos before Michelle gently took the camera and had them pose.

A beeping distracts his attention, and Harry absentmindedly taps his glasses.

“Arthur?” Percival says, both amused and annoyed. “Are you all right?”

“Quite,” Harry says, confused. “Are you?”

“I’m doing well…besides the fact that you’re late for another meeting!”

“What?” Harry then remembers. “Oh, shit! That one!” He glances at the still-open drawer and impulsively snatches Eggsy’s card, tucking it in the inside pocket of his jacket. “Be there in five.”

Harry resists the urge to sigh when Percival ends the connection, and he starts jogging towards the Round Table room. At least he has the card to keep him amused for another long meeting.

* * *

The second message comes halfway through yet another rambling speech from Madison about a proposed joint exchange program of agents. Expecting a notification from Merlin, who’s been looking into which agents to pair up first, Harry presses the button that activates the speakerphone.

“Hello, Harry,” Eggsy says in a sing-song voice. “Like my card?”

“I did,” Harry replies, glancing around the room. “Uh, Eggsy—”

“Because that’s not the only thing you’re getting, a boring old card. That—that was just a preview—”

“Eggsy,” Harry tries to interrupt, just as Bors begins snickering. “You're—”

“Because I bribed one of the techies to make something specifically for us today. You’re going to get a kick out of it—”

  
“Eggsy—” Now, the entire American branch is full-on laughing. One of the Indian leaders looks mildly scandalized, and a few of the Italians are obviously trying to hide smirks. The Parisians look far too interested in the conversation. “Eggsy, I—”

“You’ll love it, Harry. I’m on my way home right now, and about to change into my tux for tonight. The one with the classy dark blue lapels. Remember? You measured me yourself in Fitting Room Two, and god, I thought I’d might die when you slammed me up against the mirror and triggered the lift—”

“Eggsy,” Harry says louder. “I beg you not to continue.”

There’s an indignant huff. “Come off it, Harry, we’ve done this kind of thing before! What's—”

“If you’ve stopped to listen to me for a moment, you’ll know that I’m in the middle of a meeting, and you’re on the speakerphone.”

There’s a pause. “Oh.” Then, “Shut it, Rox! Harry, I’m so sorry—”

“He should be apologizing to us,” Tristan mutters. “For pity’s sake, I got measured in that room just yesterday.”

“Sorry, everyone!” Eggsy exclaims. “Um, Happy Valentines’ Day, Harry!”

“So, Harry,” Hamilton says from the end of the table, raising his voice to be heard over one of the Kingsman German agents having a small giggling fit. “I thought you said Valentine’s Day was just a holiday invented by the greeting card company to sell cards and chocolate? I trust you feel differently about it now.”

“Not relevant,” Harry dismisses hotly, ears red. “Now, let’s get back on track…”

* * *

 

“You are so in trouble.”

Eggsy flutters his eyelashes at him across the table. He does look dashingly handsome in his suit, and turned a lot of heads walking in. Harry suspects half of them were caused by the fact that he was on the arm of an older gentleman with an eyepatch and an equally well-tailored suit.

“Me?“ Eggsy asks, faux-innocently.

"You were terrible,” Harry says, speaking softer than normal to not interrupt the actors on stage. He’s also resolving to never forgive Merlin, who’d refused to delete the transcript of the meeting, citing _protocol._

“But at least I amused you?” Eggsy teases, taking a bite out his fillet mignon, as Eliza Doolittle sings, _“on the plain, on the plain!”_

“And almost all of heads of the international branches.”

Eggsy flushes pink at that, but his smirk still remains on his face. “Oh. Well. I can make it up to you right now. Say what I’m feeling…”

“No more of that, I beg of you,” Harry says, discretely nodding at the restaurant patrons around them.

“Not like that. I mean.” Eggsy clears his throat. “Uh. Roses are red / violets are blue / you’re pretty aces / I am too.” His serious expression only lasts for two seconds before he smirks again.

“This is where I’ve chosen to lay my affections,” Harry sighs, but with a light-hearted smile.

“And you love me anyway.”

“Yes. I do.” Harry leans over and briefly kisses Eggsy on the lips, not caring who sees. “As…brazen as you are, I do.”


	18. pet

“Absolutely not.” 

“But you take in strays all the time, Harry,” Merlin said, trying not to grin at his best friend’s answering scowl. “Why not this one? Eggsy will love it.” 

“And that’s exactly why I’m not taking it!” Harry refused to even look at the little Maine Coon kitten cradled in Merlin’s arms. “It’s bad enough that JB sleeps in our bed and has chewed up nearly every pair of oxfords I had! Not to mention his accident that made us hire a professional carpet cleaner! I don’t want to have to deal with a cat clawing at the furniture - or my trousers - or my person!” Harry crossed his arms. “Or cat piss. That’s even worse.” 

“What’s one more pet to add to your repertoire? You already have two.” Merlin’s face didn’t even twitch when Harry gave him another death glare. “I promise that I’ll show it around HQ and see if anyone else wants it. I just need someone to look after it.”

“There’s Roxy - “

“She’s allergic. And before you ask, Percival is still in Bolivia, Bors and Tristan are undercover for another two weeks, and I have my hands full with all the other agents, who are bound and determined to drive me into an early grave. You and Eggsy are the good options. The _only_ ones.” Merlin pointed at the kitten. “If you don’t agree, I’m calling Eggsy in here. See if _you_ can resist the lad’s trembling lip.”

Harry then sighed. “One week, Merlin. _One_ week.”

His friend grinned triumphantly, as Harry scooped up the cat. “And make sure _Eggsy_ is the one to name it!”


	19. total control

“So, are you interested?” 

Harry looked up from the documents he has to submit to Merlin before five o’clock. “Interested in what?” At Eggsy’s pointed stare, he amended, “Ah. That. Well.” 

“We don’t _have_ to,” Eggsy said, looking very much like he regretted starting the conversation. “I mean, there’s nothing wrong with _not_ doing it. Er. I mean, if you want, of course. I’m willing. But we don’t have to - “

“You did bring it up, so I want to listen.” Harry put down his pen and brushed the papers aside on the desk, then reached out to take Eggsy’s hand. “Tell me.” 

“It’s just…I mean, you said you never really had a go of it…” Eggsy hesitated. “You don’t have to be in total control all the time, you know. You can come to me. And…I can come to you. We’re partners, yeah?” 

“We are.” Harry squeezed his hand. “You’re right, Eggsy. We do need to communicate more, and I haven’t been in an actual relationship since…well, the distance between the years is rather embarrassing. But I love you, Eggsy, and I’m willing to confront my emotional…constipation, as it were, to share more things with you.” He then kissed Eggsy, who returned it with a soft sigh. It was gentle and warm and - 

It _would_ have been sweet, if Eggsy hadn’t bemusedly interrupted: “I thought we were talking about the bondage, love.” 


	20. "don't leave"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here be Merlin/Eggsy...

“I can’t stand this no more,” Eggsy breathed. He’d escaped the disgusting air of greed and wrath from the enormous villa for the time being. Although the Italian mob had a lavish lifestyle - complete with a heated swimming pool, servants at every elbow, and more rooms than people - nothing made up for the fact that everything they built was from blood. This afternoon’s hit on a family who didn’t have their debt ready nearly made Eggsy throw up right then and there. 

“Don’t leave,” Merlin said, and Eggsy could tell that the quartermaster was hating every word that came out of his mouth. “You have to wait until they tell you the information Kingsman needs. You’re doing great, lad. Lancelot sends her love.” 

“What about you?” Eggsy asked, quickly glancing around to see if anyone had trailed him, such as the flirtatious mistress of the household or one of the bodyguards assigned to him. He spotted a blonde head through one of the hedges in the garden, and quickly asked, “Do you send _me_ love?” 

“Lots of it,” Merlin fondly said, and reluctantly signed off. 


	21. accursed, or harry meets his match

“This…bloody…accursed…thing,” Harry snarled through gritted teeth. “I’ve disabled over three hundred bombs, dueled in a fire fight with nothing but a butter knife and one Kingsman dart, delivered triplets in a war zone, performed surgery with a box cutter and a bottle of vodka, and rescued Margaret Thatcher with a crossbow and the sun in my eyes! And yet…”

“And yet, you can’t assemble a table from IKEA.” Eggsy shook his head, mock-sadness in his tone. “The greatest spy brought down so low.”

“It’s not my fault that this furniture is shoddy!” Harry glared at the offending pieces on the floor. One of the legs was cleanly snapped in half. “At least the free samples at the shop were good, even though this… _product_ is not.”

“You could have asked me for help, but no, you were all _I can read Swedish_ and  _it’ll be easy_ and _we’ll be ready for dinner_! We are not ready! Mum’s gonna have kittens!” Eggsy opened the front door, impatiently gesturing. “Come on, leave it!”

Harry made sure to give the barely-assembled pieces a good kick before he went out the door.


	22. shimmer

The light caught off the glass, as Harry raised it in the direction of the television. “To Taron Egerton! To the BAFTAs! To an award well-deserved!”

Beside Harry, his lover pouted on the couch, ignoring his own untouched martini glass that shimmered in the dim glow of the screen. An empty popcorn bowl sat on top of the coffee table, along with a sticky remote control. “Colin should have won,” Eggsy grumbled. “Got robbed.”

“Nonsense, he’s had his fair share of awards. Taron deserves some official recognition.”

Eggsy scoffed. “He already won the Rising Star Award! After I voted for John Boyega every day, too!” He shook his head, clearly annoyed. “Taron’s not even that handsome.”

Harry sniffed indignantly. “How dare you. He’s plenty handsome. But,” he quickly added, seeing Eggsy’s disgruntled scowl, “not as handsome as you.”

“Of course not.” Eggsy leaned in to kiss Harry, pulling away at the last second with a smirk. “But that was kind of a last-minute save, innit? You’ll have to make it up to me after this.”


	23. dust motes

A flimsy chain hung from the ceiling, and when Harry pulled it, light slowly flickering to life inside the windowless basement. He looked around, searching the cramped room, and found the trunk in the corner. Dust motes clung to his fingertips when he opened the lid, but he didn’t wipe them off. Eggsy would be back any minute now, so Harry had to make this quick.

Harry moved aside the various graduation diplomas, the single stub of a candle from his mother’s last birthday, the various photographs falling out of their frames, and a book of pressed flowers to find the box.

He opened it, then held the object carefully in his palms. It had belonged to his father: a silver ring, slightly dull from age and engraved with the words _always yours._

“Harry!” Eggsy called from upstairs, and the older man briefly startled, before relaxing at the sound of his lover’s voice. “Are you home?”

“Yes, darling,” Harry replied, raising his voice to reach the front door. His next words were softer, though: “I’m home.”


	24. in which eggsy finds a grey hair

“I’m _old_ ,” Eggsy sighed.

Harry, standing beside him in the washroom, put down his toothbrush and looked to the side, where Eggsy was frowning in the mirror. It made his nose scrunch and his bottom lip stick out. Harry would normally use the opportunity to tease him, and perhaps nip a little at said lip, but he first needed to respond to Eggsy’s ridiculous bemoaning.

“You’re not old, Eggsy.”

“I _am,_ ” Eggsy wailed. “Look at this, Harry. Look!” He pointed accusingly to the right side of his head, and Harry craned his neck in response, squinting in the bright bathroom light.

It was a single, grey hair.

Harry blinked. “In case you haven’t noticed, dear, I have several of them on my head. You only have one.”

“But I’m not even _thirty_.”

"And you’re still as handsome as ever.”

“My grandad didn’t age well at all,” Eggsy contemplated sadly. “And my mum’s dad—he started going bald when he was twenty. _Twenty._ God, I’m going to be as bare-headed as Merlin soon!”

Harry briefly smiled in amusement. “That would be a sight.”

“This isn’t funny, Harry!” Eggsy complained. “I’m gonna be old and ugly, while you—well, you’re right fit, aren’t you? I’ve seen your pictures when you was my age, and you looked goofy and poncey as fuck. You’re one of those arseholes who look better when they age!”

“Dear me,” Harry said, with a twinge of sarcasm, “how dare I?”

Eggsy glared balefully at his reflection. “You just don’t understand.”

“If you think I’m going to leave you because just because you’re going to have grey hair or wrinkles or age spots, then you’ve solely mistaken my character.” Harry pointed at his own face. “You’re with a man who has crow’s eyes and a wobbling chin and wrinkled hands. I dare say I have a few age spots as well. My hair is not only going grey; it’s thinning. So, by your logic, why are you with me?”

“Oh, don’t start with that!” Eggsy snapped. “You’re posh and speak good and fucking badass and put-together and funny and smart…and so _kind_.” His voice broke softly on the last word, and Harry felt his heart squeeze as if it was in the middle of closing tongs. “You’re good, Harry,” the younger man practically whispered.

“And if your next sentence is something along the lines of _and I’m not,_ then I shall have to wonder how I failed in telling you that you’re the light in my life.” Harry turned and cupped Eggsy’s head gently between his palms. “You’re loyal. You’re affectionate and brash and bold and immensely talented—and kind, too. And don’t you ever call yourself not smart.” He looked deeply into Eggsy’s eyes. “You’re essential in Kingsman, and also the most important person to me. I cannot imagine my life, at this point, without you.”

Eggsy’s skin began to heat under Harry’s words and direct gaze. Harry could see the red flush slowly rising up his neck the longer the silence stretched.

“I love you, my darling,” Harry finally said. “Just as you are, and just as you will be." 

Eggsy smiled sheepishly. “Guess I was being a bit over-dramatic, wasn’t I?” 

“Not as terrible as me when I started going grey,” Harry admitted, stepping away to finish brushing his teeth. “Merlin will be happy to show you the footage.”

* * *

Eggsy was later amused to see a slightly-younger Harry Hart in a Kingsman vehicle, clutching at the fluff of his hair and wailing, "Despair! Anguish! _Horror!”_ in the middle of a recon mission.


	25. there was never a hero who was happy

“Come on,” Harry said, leaning forward in his chair. His eyes were strangely determined. “Name one secret agent who frolicked into the sunset, happy and perfectly content. No deaths. No regrets.” 

Merlin first glanced at the monitor, checking to see if all the recruits were asleep in their beds. On occasion, someone would use the opportunity of lights out to try to creep around the mansion and discover Kingsman secrets. It was rare that they found more than locked doors, but there had been a notable incident where the previous Arthur had been careless and had given a recruit a fright when the business end of a Kingsman umbrella nearly skewered his eye.

He stayed silent, thinking, pausing when he caught movement in one of the beds. Just Eggsy, turning over, hand sliding off of his pug’s back. Inwardly, Merlin sighed. He’d told the lad dogs weren’t allowed on the beds, but Eggsy had protested that JB got cold. It was a feeble excuse; the quarters were perfectly temperature-regulated. 

“You can’t,” Harry finally commented, leaning backwards.

“Hang on, I’m thinking,” Merlin protested. A month ago, he would have said Percival, but since James’ death, the agent had taken sporadic missions out of the country and refused to report to Kingsman headquarters, except to bring his recruit. 

Everyone had deaths. That was just how Kingsman was. 

“Well, can you name one?” 

“Arthur,” Merlin said, half-joking. “He does seem the happiest out of all of us.” 

“I would call him smug.” Harry rolled his eyes again. “But come off it. He doesn’t have a family, a significant other…fuck, even his dog bloody kicked it years ago, and he hasn’t had the heart to get another one.” 

“Neither have you,” Merlin pointed out. He turned his gaze back to the screen. Charlie was snoring, open-mouthed, and Roxy kicked a little in her sleep before settling. “What is this all about, anyway? Never known you to be waxing philosophically at this hour, especially after a coma.”

“Being knocked into one tends to put one’s life in perspective,” Harry mused thoughtfully, but Merlin wasn’t fooled. “Why is it that all of us end up bleeding out alone in some godforsaken abandoned place or slipping away, shriveled and bitter? I’ll tell you why. It always falls through. They never let you be an agent and happy.” 

Harry then smiled, to Merlin’s surprise. It seemed like a private thing, seeing his best friend like that, and it was more of a surprise when Harry turned his attention to the monitor. His eyes were fond. 

Merlin saw Eggsy shift in his sleep, again, and remembered Harry’s order to allow the boy to see him after he woke up from the coma, how Harry allowed Eggsy to stay while Merlin delivered mission news, how Eggsy had stayed nearly an hour later before Merlin called him away. He then remembered Eggsy’s stricken face when he saw Harry hooked up to the machines, Eggsy’s trembling hands while turning the pages of a book near Harry’s bedside, Eggsy’s frequent checks on the clipboard pinned to Harry’s hospital bed. 

“He’ll be the first,” Harry declared, watching Eggsy underneath the covers. “I know he will.”


	26. "I hit you in the balls in a paintball match I’m so sorry oh my god"

Eggsy didn’t mean for it to happen. All he wanted to do was to have fun with his mates for a few hours. The bird Jamal was dating offered to let them all in for free at the paintball place she was working at, and of course, Jamal eagerly said yes. So one Saturday, Eggsy kissed Daisy on the cheek, waved goodbye to his mum, and went out to enjoy an afternoon of hitting other people with brightly-colored ammunition.

They all had to go through brief orientation and training, and it was mostly easy if you had common sense. Eggsy, Ryan, and Jamal soon got into a competition, trying to hit various targets before the five minute mark before an announcement played over the loudspeakers:

“Attention, attention, is there a team of three who would like to compete in a field match? If so, please report to the front desk, and we’ll get you all set up.”

“Want to do it?” Ryan asked, but the answer was obvious. 

* * *

“All right, Blue Team.” The referee said, nodding at Eggsy, Ryan, and Jamal. “You’re up against the Red Team.” He gestured towards three other guys–older blokes, all wearing glasses and suspiciously nice clothes for paintballing. (Seriously, who wore a button-down shirt outside of an office?) One bloke in particular made Eggsy temporarily go weak at the knees: older, fit, and–did he just _wink_ at him?

“Don’t fraternize with the enemy,” Jamal hissed, nudging Eggsy in the side. Glad that his mask and goggles obscured his face, which was surely turning bright red at the moment, Eggsy pinched his friend’s side, _hard._

 _“Oi!”_ Jamal exclaimed, and a brief shoving match commenced. As Eggsy put Jamal in a headlock, he noticed Ryan filming it with his phone, and the attractive older bloke obviously trying to hide a smile. 

“If you lads are done..” the referee warned, and Eggsy and Jamal guiltily backed away from each other. “All right, everyone. Be safe.” He pointed to the woods. “Ready, and…go!”

* * *

It was a spectacular battle. Eggsy and his mates soon learned that just because the Red Team consisted of poncy-looking blokes twice their age didn’t mean that they had wicked aim and worked well as a team. Eggsy and Ryan managed to take down one of them–”Percival!” someone had shouted–and beat back to their safe spot.

Unfortunately, a red paintball hit Ryan right in the stomach, and he went down with an _oof._

“Forget about me!” Ryan dramatically collapsed on the ground, clutching at his “wound” and reaching out towards Eggsy with his other hand. “Go! Save yourself!”  

Eggsy mock-saluted. “I will avenge you!” he vowed, and once he saw a flash of protective padding through the trees, Eggsy took aim and fired, heart pounding.

He heard a thump, and a curse, and Eggsy was about to cheer when a loud groan reached his ears. Turning, he saw the handsome bloke on the ground, clutching his–

“Shit!” Eggsy cursed. Ignoring Ryan’s cries for vengeance, he raced over, dropping to his knees to see if the man was all right. “I’m so fucking sorry, bruv; I got carried away–”

“It’s quite all right,” the man reassured him, but grimaced when he tried to stand up. “I might have to wait here, though.” 

“Did I…did I damage…” 

“I don’t think so.” 

“Good,” Eggsy said, relieved. “I mean, I’m really, really sorry. I got hit in the bullocks when my mate and I were playing soccer, and had to sit out part of the game. I bet it really hurts.” He gestured–he realized later that it must have looked extremely awkward–towards the man’s crotch. 

The other man only smiled. “May I have the name of my killer?” 

Eggsy snorted, before saying, “Gary–uh, Eggsy. You?”

“Harry.” 

“What’s a posh bloke like you doing scampering around the woods?”

“Believe it or not, this was my colleague’s idea of a team-building exercise, but I think he wants an excuse to hit someone.”

Eggsy snorted. “Friendly.” 

“He’s a bit of a bastard, but we all love him.” Harry leaned in. “Don’t tell him I said that.” 

Eggsy laughed. “Promise.” 

He and Harry spent the better part of the next half hour squatting in the woods and talking. Harry told surprisingly riveting accounts about being a tailor–mostly complaints of overly snobby and specific customers and his boss, Arthur–and Eggsy talked a little about his family and the different sports injuries he’d gotten when he was younger. As they continued their conversation, Eggsy found himself leaning in closer and closer, putting his paintball gun down and smiling so hard that his cheeks began to hurt. 

Finally, Harry stood up, and Eggsy followed suit. “Feeling better, then?” he asked.  

Harry smiled, and Eggsy’s heart did several somersaults. “Yes, much.” 

“Good. wouldn’t want to be the cause of…uh, damage to your…” Eggsy quickly cut himself off before he could make this even more awkward than it already was. “Sorry. I owe you a favor.”

“Maybe after this, we can get a pint?”

Eggsy grinned. “Uh. Yeah. I’d like that.”

“Good,” Harry said with a pleased smile, then suddenly raised his gun and pulled the trigger.

Eggsy quickly dove to his left, watching the red paintball splatter against a tree. “You can’t shoot me, you wanker–you’re dead.”

Harry smiled. “Ah, but Merlin can.”

Before Eggsy could ask what he was talking about, a red paintball hit him in the back. 


	27. the evil twin

Eggsy thought Harry was alive.

He thought Harry had returned. But something was…off about him. Harry would smile at him, touch his shoulder, and say all the right things, but something about it all made Eggsy’s stomach curdle in the same way it did around Dean.

It couldn’t be right, of course. Harry was not his bastard stepfather. He’d never raised a hand to him at all—and when he’d stood on the porch three months after V-Day, he’d apologized. Apologized for upsetting him, apologized for massacring all those people, apologized for leaving Eggsy alone.

Eggsy assumed whatever weirdness there was, it was because of V-Day. He wasn’t immune to the effects of crashing—and knew Merlin and Roxy weren’t white the same. Merlin was still trying to deal with blowing off the heads of many world leaders and could be seen gritting his teeth and closing his eyes when another rebellion in an unstable country broke out. Roxy visited what was left of her family, sobbing quietly after phone calls to her mother, who was debating whether or not to pull the plug on her husband of nearly forty years. And Eggsy? Eggsy blamed himself for getting himself in a tight spot, blamed himself for pleading for Merlin to blow the heads off, for not stopping Valentine the second time, for causing pain because he wasn’t good enough.

Harry, though. Harry held Eggsy’s head in both hands and told him he was good enough. Told him that he was special. Told him that he shouldn’t blame himself.

If Eggsy had looked farther, he would have noticed Harry’s eyes weren’t quite the same shade of whiskey-brown, that the scar on his forehead was cleaner than it should have been, that his accent was a bit tougher on the consonants.

But he didn’t.

He didn’t notice the quiet phone calls in the night. He didn’t notice the smirk when Harry’s fingers grazed over his bare skin. He didn’t notice the oddity of them not telling Merlin or Roxy or anyone about his supposed resurrection.

Eggsy closed his eyes, shifting in his bed, and let Harry, beside him, lull him back to sleep.


	28. hunger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> has mentions of anorexia

Eggsy doesn’t eat after he saves the world because he’s so high on adrenaline and just doesn’t want to. Then, when he crashes, he just can’t eat. He wants to just lie in his bed—the bed Harry made up for him during the precious twenty-four hours—and just…not face it yet. Because when he gets up, he has to go to countless HQ meetings to decide what the agency must do after V-Day, sign the necessary papers, read over Harry’s last will and testament with Merlin, move his mum and sister into a new flat, get new missions, clean up the dust that’s settling into the corners of the house…

Eggsy keeps himself busy. He doesn’t starve himself, because he can’t be an active agent if he’s passing out all the time, but he doesn’t exactly keep up with regular meals. It’s not that jarring; Eggsy’s gone without meals before. But it’s not because Dean’s punishing him for something petty or making sure his mum and sister get enough to eat; it’s because he just can’t…make himself eat. He just doesn’t feel hungry anymore.

Roxy notices on their recon mission together that Eggsy just eats a few bites of his sandwich and leaves the rest, then puts two and two together and immediately tells Merlin, who orders him to take sit-down meals with one other person three times a day and to see the Kingsman medical staff. No excuses.

Eggsy resents this—"I’m fine!“—but complies. He hates people watching him eat, so he asks them to tell some stories as he eats.

And in this way, Eggsy learns all sorts of things, from disarming bombs to different fencing techniques to shooting the umbrella darts while riding backwards on a horse, but also learns about Harry.

He collects everything as food begins to settle in his stomach. With every bite is a precious word about his former mentor, and with every swallow is a laugh or an exasperated sigh from the agent telling another tale.

Eggsy learns how Harry brought Mr. Pickles to work to annoy Arthur over black bean soup, learns how Harry performed an emergency operation with a box cutter and bottle of alcohol over clam linguini, learns how Harry learned Arabic while being held captive in an underground cell over buttermilk pancakes, learns how Harry brought down an army of guards by driving a tank over pear and gorgonzola pizza, learns how Harry still got flack for saving Margaret Thatcher over a grilled cheese sandwich.

Eggsy, with proper diet and exercise, looks much healthier in a few months.

But Eggsy can never truly feel full again.


	29. a return from the dead...but less of a knight

“I’d rather be with Harry,” Eggsy’s said.

He knows because he’s seen footage of the former Arthur’s death. Harry had requested it from Merlin, after the quartermaster’s threat of “after you recover, you’re Arthur. Congratulations.” Eggsy, when he later retold it in hesitant words, as if Harry would scold him again, had omitted that one detail.

So, Harry had picked up Eggsy’s hand and stroked a thumb over his knuckles after his story. “You did the right thing, Eggsy. You’re a true Kingsman.” The younger man had smiled, eyes bright and relieved, hand trembling in his. “I’m so sorry about what I said. You did not deserve to hear those words. But you do deserve to hear these.” And he’d leaned upwards, lips just brushing Eggsy’s ear, saying three words that made Eggsy melt.

It was almost too easy. Now, he reviews the boy’s bright grins, the stars in his eyes, the teeth worrying his bottom lip, each one. Eggsy had never been subtle, and Harry, in a different life, had been amused and endeared, but always keeping him at a safe distance. There had been ridiculous notions about propriety and age and honor and debt and doubt.

Those are gone, now.

Eggsy’s wormed his way into the hearts of Merlin and Roxy and himself, and can do the same with others. He has easy charm and disarming smiles, but with enough past hardships to be careful—yet vulnerable to praise and gentle touches. And this is what Harry will do.

He will take up his position as Arthur, secure Eggsy’s trust by knighting him as Galahad, and change Kingsman for the better. No more elitism, of course, but no more mercy. That had died within him, along with half of his eyesight under the broiling sun of Kentucky.

Kingsman will restore order. Kingsman will take charge when no one else does. Kingsman will be an active force in this slow society.

When Kingsman will shoot, they will to kill.

Harry smiles. To Merlin checking in on the footage, he’s the picture of an old man in love, recollecting the recent memory of Eggsy in his hospital room. But Harry is only confirming what he already knows, and is eager to begin his plans.

He knows Eggsy will follow him anywhere.


	30. "am I dead? wait, you're here. this must be hell."

Charlie wakes up to see Eggy Unwin standing over him in an actual bespoke suit and a mutilated red-and-blue striped tie. “Am I dead?” he mutters. “Wait, you’re here. This must be Hell.”

Eggy rolls his eyes. “Good to see you, too. And here I was worrying about you being dead.” He clucks his tongue. “Too bad.”

Charlie suddenly feels very tired, not willing to exchange familiar, cutting banter. “Just leave me here,” he can only say. All at once, he remembers his parents screaming, grey and red splattering amongst too-bright flashes of colorful light, and him trying to crawl for the door before passing out again. Eggsy had knocked him out good with that electric-shock ring. “Why didn’t my head explode, too?” _Why didn’t I die?_

Eggy’s face grows serious, an expression so rare that Charlie feels surprised in spite of himself. “Your parents must’ve had the chips. We…I…I detonated them.”

“You killed my parents,” Charlie says, faintly. He suddenly begins to laugh. “You fucking _chav_ , you killed my _fucking parents_! God, _the irony,_ the fucking _irony_! Did that make you feel good, Eggy? _Is this what you fucking signed up for?”_

“I…I…” the other man stutters, before clenching his fists at his sides defensively. “Your parents signed on to destroy the world!”

“They’re still my parents! Just because you’ve had shitty ones doesn’t mean you have to ruin it for the rest of us!”

Eggy snarls, like an animal. Appropriate. “You take that back!”

“Why don’t you give them back instead, _huh?”_

To his surprise, Eggy closes his eyes, and all of the anger just stops, like an unplugged alarm clock. His fists are trembling. “I wish I could. _Shit,_ I wish I could.” He slumps in his suit, and for the first time, Charlie sees the blood speckling his face and hands and chest. Even though Eggy looks as put-together as Charlie’s ever seen him, he reminds him of a dog that’s been kicked too much and left outside in a dumpster to die. “I’m fucking… _I_ …” he breathes, in quick, short bursts, before finally saying, “We’ve all lost people, Charlie.”

“Your fault,” Charlie mutters, letting his head drop back onto the floor. “Your fucking fault.”

Eggy lets the words cut him, and a mean knot in his stomach tightens at the sight. “Yeah. Yeah it is.” He then extends a hand to Charlie. “Come on, then. Let’s get you home.”


	31. the survivor

“So, why are you bummed, Eggy?” Charlie snaps, after a long ten minutes. “You saved the world, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t save a lot of people.”

“Including my parents.”

Eggsy sighs. They’ve been through this, back and forth, and although he does feel sorry for Charlie, there is the fact that his parents volunteered to be saved in exchange for letting the rest of the planet kill themselves in a mass clusterfuck of senseless slaughter. Charlie is handcuffed—wrists and ankles—triggered with an electric shock if he gets more than ten feet away from Merlin, who’s driving the plane.

Roxy’s helping Eggsy watch their prisoner, clearly exhausted but determined not to show it, while Eggsy wishes he was doing a bit better. It felt good to strip off the well-used suit and don what Charlie had called “chav clothes.” He knew Harry had commissioned it for him, from the cut to the tie, but it felt like his ghost was in every stitch and every fold. Harry hadn’t measured or sewed any of it, but Eggsy can still remember him coming back to the shop and smoothing his palms down the fabric bolts, telling Eggsy the different patterns a gentleman should wear. He’d looped one of the ties around Eggsy’s neck, showing him how to tie a Windsor knot, and quietly smiled. “It suits you,” he’d said.

Charlie now kicks impatiently, and Eggsy watches him. He was shit at picking locks during Kingsman training, but Charlie didn’t make it to the final three out of pure luck. Eggsy hates to admit it, but Charlie had been a very capable candidate who was, unfortunately, a cowardly and classist prick. But underneath his resentful, sneering mask is grief and bewilderment and horror, like his life has dropped out from underneath his feet.

Eggsy knows how that feels.


	32. lap-sitting

Eggsy sits on Harry’s lap during meetings.

No matter what Merlin says, it’s not some kinky sex thing, or as Percival says, blatantly ignoring of Kingsman protocol of public displays of affection. Eggsy just likes to, on occasion, stroll into the Round Table room early, where Harry prepares for the HQ meetings, looking as if he’s resisting running his fingers through his perfectly-coifed hair.

Eggsy likes seeing Harry’s face light up when he walks into the room, the lines across his forehead relaxing and slight crow’s eyes deepening as he smiles. He likes doing what he can to help Harry relax—as Arthur, Harry doesn’t get out on field missions that much, and is, some days, simply trapped behind a desk with not enough time to even take a quick jog around the grounds. He likes sitting down and hearing Harry sigh in contentment, sinking into Eggsy’s touch after hours battling paperwork and public relations.

They don’t do anything sordid—though Eggsy dearly wants to see if the table is indeed the perfect height for bending over on. Mostly, Harry scratches out signatures and notes, with Eggsy offering his opinions and snarky comments. Sometimes, Eggsy brings in lunch, and they sit and simply read over reports over a bag of sandwiches or fish and chips. Rarely, they stop for a quick session of snogging and wandering hands, trying not to crumple their suits or muss their hair.

Harry likes to wind his left arm around Eggsy’s waist and write or pick up papers with his right hand. He likes to nuzzle Eggsy’s neck and bump against a stray mole. He likes to lean into Eggsy’s back and talk about small things—about his day, about Merlin’s latest beef with another agent or the tech department, about budgeting or negotiations or shipments. Sometimes, Eggsy chatters to fill the empty spaces, but often, they work together in almost-perfect silence and perfect harmony.

And if the agents file in all at once, what can Eggsy do?

The first time it had happened, Eggsy had frozen, unsure if it would be more awkward to stand up and move to Harry’s right hand or to stay where he was and cause a brief disturbance.

In the end, Harry had inadvertently decided for him, with a gentle touch on his knee and seamlessly transitioning: “All right, now that everyone is here, why don’t we begin our meeting?” Roxy had given Eggsy amused looks from behind her file, Merlin had raised his eyebrows ten times, Percival had simply stared, and the other agents either looked as if they desperately wanted to comment or just moved along with their reports, as if it was an ordinary occurrence.

Eggsy had continued until it did.

He and Harry never bring it up. It’s an unspoken level of intimacy, and Eggsy notices a trend of a more relaxed Harry. Besides, Harry’s legs are more comfortable than stiff leather and polished wood. He enjoys giving his report, leaning back to say it in Harry’s ear and feeling Harry smile against his neck.

Harry smells like his usual cologne and something else that’s so distinctively him, and Eggsy loves it when he steps out of the meeting room smelling faintly the same way. He loves sliding off of Harry’s lap and giving him a quick peck before he leaves. He likes the way Harry’s fingers linger on his hand before he reluctantly lets go.

“See you later,” Harry always promises, and so far, he’s kept every single one of them.


	33. in which the glasses are not switched

Arthur clicks the pen, and Eggsy begins to choke.

He knows he should have switched the drinks. He knows that he should have been suspicious of Arthur’s sudden kindness to him. He knows he should have caught that scar behind his ear sooner.

Arthur’s staring at him coldly, as he takes a sip from the brandy, and Eggsy wildly thinks, _Toasting to me, aren’t you?_ , but can’t get the words out past his gasping lips.

His stomach feels like the time Jamal dared him to swallow the whole little ball of wasabi whole a year ago, but a thousand times worse, and he’s beginning to spasm as if he’s had too much of a fix. He’s dying, Eggsy now realizes, stupidly. He’s going to die in this bloody room alone with a murdering prick, away from his mum and sis, as a failure.

But when Eggsy said that he’d rather be with Harry, he meant it.


	34. stuck in the elevator

Merlin’s tried locking Harry and Eggsy in a closet, sending them to a safehouse in the middle of Alaska, and even assigning them a case in which they had to act like a married couple, but those two are thick as hell. They always manage to break out of the closet (physically, sadly, not figuratively), hack the radio to signal for help, or (worst of all) act like complete professionals.

In frustration, Merlin’s deciding to just give up on these two idiots finally admitting their mutual affection when he spots live footage on one of his screens. Eggsy and Harry have just exited Harry’s office after his debriefing, and both of them are stepping into the lift.

Perfect.

As soon as the doors close, the power mysteriously blows, and the lift comes to a stop.

Exasperated, Harry pushes the call button. “Hello, Galahad and I would like some assistance; the lift appears to have malfunctioned.”

Merlin takes gleeful (sadistic) pleasure in saying, “I’ll have the tech department sort this out; I’m in the middle of handling Lancelot’s mission.”

Which is, of course, a lie. Merlin quickly messages the tech department to tell them to—under no circumstances, unless one of them has a panic attack or an emergency—ignore them.

The quartermaster watches as a resigned Harry and a bored Eggsy sit on opposite sides of the lift, not daring to move in case it starts up again. Eggsy sighs and fidgets, while Harry—the nerve of him—actually takes out a stack of paperwork from his briefcase and begins to work on them. The younger man begins to hum a song, then another, then another, until he’s belting out the lyrics to “God Save the Queen” at a horrendous volume.

Merlin watches as Harry sighs, putting the paperwork (finally) down. “Eggsy, please. You have a lovely voice, but surely you can lower the volume.”

“But I’m bored as shit, Harry! We’ve been here for hours!”

“Only thirty minutes,” Harry corrects, checking his watch. “I do hope someone manages to fix the lift; I wonder how long Lancelot’s mission is going to take?”

Eggsy frowns, before saying, “Wait…Rox? But…she said earlier today that this time was her shift at the shop.”

“What could Merlin possibly be doing, then?” Harry sounds truly annoyed now. Good. He deserves it. “Of all days! We’re going to be late.”

“You’re always late, bruv,” Eggsy cheekily comments, just as Merlin wonders, _Late for what?_

“Yes, Eggsy, but I rather not have your mother throw her hairdryer at me again.”

Eggsy rolls his eyes, a teasing grin sneaking across his face. “Nah, she’s not going to.”

Merlin nearly drops his tea when Harry dryly replies, “She will once she finds out that I’m involved with her son.”


	35. shooting the dog

“Shoot the dog,” Arthur says, and startled, Eggsy cranks his neck around the back of the chair to stare disbelievingly the man in the corner of the room.

Harry has an excellent poker face. He’s staring back at Eggsy without so much as a twitch, and Eggsy wants to shout, ‘why did you set me up to fail?’ During their time together in Harry’s house, when Eggsy had asked, Harry revealed he had, in fact, seen the footage of the night of his arrest. 'Remarkable driving skills. You could have possibly driven through London all night if that fox hadn’t been in the road.’ Eggsy had shrugged with an 'I’ve a soft spot for animals,’ not understanding when Harry had paused for the slightest second in stirring his martini.

 Of course, Eggsy knows, and Harry knew from the moment he recruited him, all throughout his training and the twenty-four hours. All this time, from the dinning etiquette lesson to the martinis to the day in the shop—

But Eggsy remembers Harry commissioning the suit, when he’d stepped inside for a brief while before returning to his mission. How he’d helped Eggsy choose everything from the cut to the cufflinks, telling him to run his fingers down the length of the fabric to see which one felt pleasant against his skin. 'Armor is made for Kingsman, but it can’t be just any armor. You have to feel comfortable in it, and the best thing for that is to choose what you like.’

Harry had only directed him to choices, then stood back and made Eggsy make the final decisions. “I might mess this up,” Eggsy had complained, and Harry had smiled fondly and said, “I don’t think you will.”

And suddenly, in perfect clarity, Eggsy realizes: Arthur said “shoot the dog.” He didn’t say to “kill the dog.”

 Eggsy keeps himself from smirking, but he’s still cautious. He truly doesn’t want to hurt JB, and for this to work, he can’t be sitting.

When he lifts himself from his chair, ignoring Arthur’s “what exactly are you doing?,” Eggsy takes several paces backward, shaking his head when JB gets up to follow.

“Stay,” he orders, and the pug obeys, looking eagerly for the next command.

Raising the gun, Eggsy squints, aims at the tiniest corner of JB’s curly tail, and fires.

The noise startles him, but Eggsy’s trained well enough to not drop his gun, even though—even though—

It’s a fucking blank.

“Bloody well done,” Harry says, and grins.

Eggsy laughs, and throws his arms around Harry in relief and joy, and to his surprise, the man lifts him up so high that his toes barely drag on the floor and spins him once, like a fucking movie. He can practically feel Arthur clutching his pearls as Harry squeezes Eggsy tighter around the middle before finally setting him down.

“You did it,” Harry keeps repeating, with a smug grin, “I knew you could, I knew you could, I always—“ and Eggsy kisses him.

 At first, he thinks he’s made a terrible mistake, because for a moment, Harry jerks his head away, uttering a small grunt, but then—but then, responds. Harry’s fingers clench around the bulky jumpsuit before he presses back, and Eggsy’s almost lifted above the ground again, laughing in elation, because he’s passed and is going to be a Kingsman and is going to be with Harry—

“This is entirely inappropriate!” Arthur practically shouts, and Eggsy breaks the kiss with an annoyed huff. Judging by Harry’s own annoyed frown, he’s not too happy about it, either. “Goodness, Galahad, restrain yourself—I never thought—“ he takes a shuddering breath before continuing, in a calm-but-cut voice, “Merlin informed me that Miss Morton passed her test, as well. You are not a Kingsman yet, so please don’t prematurely celebrate, and Galahad—I have half the mind—“

The door suddenly opens, cutting off Arthur’s indignant speech, and Merlin, Percival, and Roxy enter, with Roxy’s poodle trotting at her heels.

His friend bites her lip, before asking, “Did you…?”

“Yeah,” Eggsy says simply, and Roxy grins, before dropping it immediately when she notices Arthur in the corner of the room.

“You two are at a tie,” Arthur then announces, looking as if he wishes to stab someone. “Much like the last time. Which means…a trial field mission, for each of you, once we get intel. Until then…” His lips twist. “Both of the Lancelot candidates are required to return to their agents’ houses for the time being.”

This time, Eggsy turns and sees a bright smile on Harry’s face.


	36. the crash (but not the burn)

It’s like an adrenaline crash for Eggsy. The coping mechanism serves him reasonably well for a while, but Eggsy wakes up at the end of the year, surrounded by gilded wallpaper and dusty decanters of liquor and old possessions that he’s refused to throw away, and realizes that Harry Hart is dead.

He’s furious and ashamed and guilty and just starts bawling, head in his hands. In some secret corner of his heart, he might have believed that this was that kind of movie, where heroes triumph over death and come back—but when V-Day comes and goes, Eggsy’s left numbly sitting in Harry’s office, in Harry’s robe, and in Harry’s slippers.

He calls Roxy, then Merlin, and the three of them just talk for a long while until Eggsy decides this: he has to let Harry go.

The first thing he does turn to the Sun covers on the wall, and for ten horrible minutes, he just cranes his neck and simply absorbs the legacy of Harry Hart. He wishes Harry could have told him all these stories about his life in person, wishes they had more time together than a few meager months, wishes that he got to truly know the man he’s been emulating for a year. Eggsy knows he’s lost that and won’t ever get it—no, get _Harry_ back.

He lets out a deep, shuddering sob and allows himself to truly grieve, confronted by this finality.

Harry Hart is dead.

Then, through his tears, Eggsy begins taking the newspaper covers down.

It’s time to start a legacy of his own.


	37. first kiss

Eggsy imagined his first kiss with Harry as something slow and tender and careful. The older man would often lecture him about manners and being considerate, so Eggsy would think of Harry gently taking his face in both hands and laying a brief, but sweet kiss on his lips.

Sometimes the scene would vary—in the dining room with Harry bending over as he served Eggsy some breakfast, in the sprawling gardens of the Kingsman estate during one of their usual strolls, or even during a plane ride to their next mission, even though as Arthur, Harry was technically not allowed on field missions. (Not like that stopped him.)

But when Harry and Eggsy finally, finally kiss—right after a blood-pumping, blood-inducing mission—it’s heat and teeth and tongue, and Eggsy feels as if his feet are stuck to the ground. He doesn’t hear Merlin’s sudden silence, Roxy’s triumphant little laugh, or the puttering of the Kingsman retrieval helicopter landing behind them.

He feels the warm gusts of air whipping his hair and clothes and smells the fresh, iron-rich flecks of blood and tastes spit and the chickpea curry they had for lunch just a few hours ago. Hands—large hands—grip and scrunch the back of his suit, and their glasses press together, into the skin uncomfortably, but Eggsy won’t let go for the world.

But they have to come up for air, and both can only gasp and stare at each other with wide eyes.

Eggsy then breathes, “Gentlemen don’t kiss like that,” and Harry simply replies, “Yes, they fucking do,” then proceeds to snog him senseless.

The retrieval helicopter can wait.


	38. too hot (hot damn)

Harry surprises Eggsy one morning when Eggsy looks in the mirror at himself in a new suit and goes, “I’m too hot,” and Harry replies, without looking up from his newspaper, “Hot damn.”   
  
Harry watches Eggsy collapse into hysterical laughter for five minutes straight, bending in half and completely creasing his suit down the middle. His eyes are squeezed shut, and tears—genuine tears—leak from the corners. Whenever Eggsy tries to say something, he simply cannot control himself and has to take slow, deep breaths until he’s standing up straight, clutching his side.

“Did I not do that correctly?” Harry then asks, rather cheekily, and this, of course, sets Eggsy off again.

They are late again to the morning briefing, and Merlin holds up his hand when they finally walk in, muttering, “I don’t even want to know.”


	39. the robe

When Harry comes back from the dead and sees Eggsy in his robe, he just decides to just let him keep it. It’s technically been his for over a year, and honestly, it gives Harry a warm feeling, seeing Eggsy dressed so comfortably in something that Harry’s had for over two decades.

But he does miss having a robe. He hates shivering in the mornings after a shower or lounging with just a set of thin pajamas in the evening. London does get chilly and rainy, and there’s nothing like a piping hot cup of tea and a something warm and cozy wrapped around your body. He misses the weight of it, the worn softness, the little HH initials on one of the pockets.

Eggsy notices, of course, and after a little research, gets Harry an exact replica of his old robe for the next rainy day. It’s newer, warmer, and the red is more vibrant than Eggsy’s own duller mahogany.

On one of the pockets is an embroidered EU.

“For Eggsy Unwin, not the European Union,” Eggsy’s hasty to explain, but Harry only laughs and kisses the other man until he’s no longer cold.


	40. the reason behind the cruelty

Harry comes home from a brief afternoon of listening to intel and waiting for the news of Eggsy’s sure-to-be success. He’s confident. He’s ready to congratulate him. Perhaps, when Eggsy comes to Harry’s flat, they’ll have a drink to celebrate. Perhaps Harry will make him a quick, but piping hot, sit-down meal and talk about Eggsy’s future. Perhaps he’ll get useful information on Valentine, and they’ll go on a mission together. He can’t wait to see the young man put on his own bespoke suit and marvel at using all the wonderful gadgets Harry’s shown him back at the shop. 

But Arthur cooly—and smugly—informs Harry that Eggsy not only failed to shoot his dog, but pointed the gun at him and stole his car. His boss sounds pissed off, and Harry manages to hack into the car on his tablet—Merlin’s not the only one who knows about technology—and listen in. He then hears Eggsy, angry and defiant, ready to start a fight right there in the street—and decides it’s time to intervene. 

When Eggsy hits the dashboard, protesting, “Come on, come on, he hit my mum!,” Harry briefly closes his eyes and continues steering the car back to his house. It’s too late. He has a hundred things he wants to say, and all of them are crawling up his throat and lie heavily on his tongue, bitter as an arsenic pill. He’s disappointed—disappointed in his failure, disappointed in Eggsy going back to life not meant for him, disappointed in bloody Arthur’s clear victory.

There’s no turning back. 

Walking out on the balcony to make sure Eggsy doesn’t make a break for it as soon as the doors unlock, Harry watches as the boy glares at him before entering the house. 

The door rattles as Harry’s just coming down the stairs. He feels almost vulnerable in this sweater, soft and pliant, and when Eggsy marches in, gaze baleful and sulky, Harry lashes out before Eggsy can. 

They say terrible things, awful things, and Harry’s bitterly amazed that they know exactly where to cut each other where they’re most vulnerable, despite not having full contact until a day ago. But in those twenty-four hours, they grew to know each other as if they’d been talking for months. Eggsy in his house felt like something settling into place, as if the boy had meant to be there all along. 

Harry, a long time ago, had brought Lee to his house, gave him a brief course of table etiquette over dinner, and offered martini lessons, but it seemed so different with his son, Eggsy, earnest but unsure. Eggsy, who grinned every time he caught his eye; Eggsy, who watched as Harry stripped himself of his jacket and leaned back into the office chair; Eggsy, who pointed at various objects in each room and asked him who he was. 

Harry learned about Eggsy, too, about his mother and her troubles with money and men and trying to keep herself and her children safe. He learned about the little sister whom Eggsy adored, despite her relation to a repulsive man who threatened to kill his own stepson. He heard about Eggsy growing up in a grief-weary house, trying to navigate through power outages and bills and lack of food, quitting the Marines when he found out his mother was pregnant with Daisy, and living a sort of half-life, avoiding his stepfather’s blows and sneaking out to the pub at night. 

It wasn’t the martinis that loosened Eggsy’s tongue. He’d been wanting to say all these things for a long time, Harry sensed. Eggsy had looked up at him through his dark eyelashes and just talked. Every minute, his body shifted on the couch, closer to Harry, until their knees and shoulders touched. Eggsy had divested himself of his jacket and trainers and cap long before, and Harry could see the strong lines of his arms and shoulders. 

‘Time for bed,’ he remembered saying around midnight, and Eggsy murmured excuses and pleas before Harry helped him up from the couch. He laid in bed for a while, trying to memorize the feel of his arm around those broad shoulders and the way Eggsy smelled of gin and sweat and something else. He could hear Eggsy shifting in the next room over, mattress creaking and covers rustling, and tried not to picture how Eggsy would look asleep, to no avail.

His eyelids would be closed, Harry decided, and his mouth would fall slack, and he would drool, most certainly. He might snore, but Harry talked in his sleep, so they’d be even. 

 _He’s not even an agent yet,_ Harry mentally scolded himself. _And twenty-three, for God’s sake. You’re perverse._

But that didn’t stop him from peeking through the door when he got up in the middle of the night to use the loo. Eggsy did snore, and although Harry didn’t dare stir inside, he was certain Eggsy also drooled. He imagined pulling Eggsy close, curling around him, and immediately went to bed, determined to banish these thoughts. 

Instead, Harry dreamt briefly of Eggsy. He imagined calling him 'dear’ and 'darling’ and every sickeningly silly name in the book. He imagined waking him up for a mission or another peaceful morning, watching those eyes sleepily blink open. He imagined, in many ways, how he’d make Eggsy nod and laugh and smile. Harry still saw Eggsy’s smile in his head. He dared not describe it as fond. 

The next morning, Harry made breakfast for Eggsy, refusing to let himself tut too much over whether the eggs were perfectly fluffed or the biscuits were exactly golden-brown. The smell woke Eggsy up—or perhaps the admittedly loud sounds of Harry setting the table—and Harry resisted tousling Eggsy’s bedhead when he sat down at the table. It would be improper, he decided, and unwanted. 

But he treated Eggsy to a new suit and a brief tour of Fitting Room Three, because he was weak. He treasured every beam of surprise, every cheeky smirk, every enthusiastic inquiry. He loved how easy everything was. 

But it’s over now, he’s certain, as Harry, hastily dressed in his suit—his armor—opens his laptop and types in the password, purposely leaving the office door wide open. Perhaps Eggsy will learn what a true Kingsman is. 

It’s possibly a little cruel, but it wouldn’t hurt the boy. He’d do to have a little lesson on what he lost. 


	41. together...or not?

When Roxy catches a whiff of Eggsy’s collar, she thinks,  _Finally._

They all have had a crash course in tailoring—in case they had to stay behind and run the shop—so Roxy’s initial suspicion had been pinged by Eggsy’s shirt. The shirt was too big for him, tucked into his pants and straining over his back through the thin jacket, as if by the assistance of pins. 

(She didn’t count the too-long glances between Harry and Eggsy during the meeting with the French branch. They were always doing that.)

The concluding realization was from the cologne she knew Harry wore; Merlin had given him a bottle for his birthday last month. It was a pleasant scent, like apple cider, but also reeked of expense—the kind that would move her father to tears if the bottle happened to spill. But Harry liked it well enough, so much that Roxy could know it was him before she caught a glimpse of him in the halls. 

Which led to this conclusion: Eggsy and Harry finally snogged, and Merlin owed her an expensive dinner at the finest restaurant in London. (Percival also owed her fifty pounds, Bors an offer to drive a tank, and Tristan his recipe for creme brûlée. And that was for starters.)

Now, to get the details out of Eggsy. 

Except…there are no details. 

“What are you talkin’ about, Rox?” her friend demands, flush bright on his neck and ears. “I jus’ spilled coffee on my shirt, and Harry lent me a spare so I wouldn’t look like a chavvy slob in the meeting.“ 

Roxy sighs in disappointment. "I thought you two finally wised up.”

Eggsy sputters. “Harry doesn't—we haven't—" 

"You live together, for pity’s sake." 

"It’s convenient! Besides, when Harry came back, I was already livin’ in it, and he said he didn’t want to kick me out—”

“He makes you breakfast." 

"He wakes up early, and part of it is for him, anyway—" 

"You bring him lunch if he’s stuck in meetings all day." 

"What, I’m not allowed to be nice—" 

"You go to the pool whenever Harry is there.” Roxy holds up her hand. “Don’t lie. I know you check his schedule, and I also know you hate water more than a bald cat.”

Eggsy buries his face in his hands. “Doesn’t mean nothin’." 

Roxy sighs. Again. "You two are practically married. You just need to…you know how it works, don’t you?”

Her friend’s face now resembles a tomato with a combover. “It’s not going to be just a meaningless shag, if it ever happens—which it won’t! I want it to mean something, Rox,” he says, imploringly, “I want it to be…special. I don’t want to walk away afterwards; I want to stay with him. Harry is…important to me." 

"I am?" 

Eggsy jumps about five feet, and Roxy nearly ten, because their boss is standing right behind them. 

But Harry’s looking at Eggsy with such astonishment and affection that Roxy quietly backs away to give them privacy for a much-needed talk. 

She smirks. She’s so going to win the office pool. 


	42. lies

Harry’s made a living of lying. He is a spy, after all, and spies cannot exist without some subterfuge. As he is one of the oldest active agents, Harry can easily tell lies that seem true, and will never break. He’s never broke.

It can be attested to; he’s had half of his teeth knocked out of his head by a Russian drug cartel, scars on his body that were meant to prolong the hurt but not to kill, a lingering fear of being alone after being left in the hot desert sun to die.  

Harry tells lies to control, to protect, to hide. He’s lied to everyone he’s come into contact in his life, and when Percival once asks, “Isn’t there anyone you’ve been honest with?,” the closest example Harry can bring up is Merlin. (He’s kept some things about himself from his friend, but Merlin has, too. Kingsman has a way of making you discard your the past.)

He’s lied to himself, multiple times. That he didn’t look at men the same way he looked at women, that he sometimes wants something to come home to after missions, that he’s truly happy.

He’s lied to Michelle Unwin about Lee, and when he tried to tell the weeping widow that her husband had been kind and brave and loyal and good without revealing Kingsman, it only rang hollow. Condolences are not what the grieving want to hear sometimes; they only want to have the person they love brought back. So, he’d given what he could, a small token and a promise, and left.

Eggsy, though, changes things. Kingsman is the best part of him, and Harry wants to share this, what all he has to offer. 

“I see a young man with potential,” he says, surprised by how honest his voice is. Eggsy hears, too, and Harry keeps telling truths, truth that come so easily, to see more of Eggsy’s smile. That he’s loyal, that he’s talented, that he’s intelligent, that he's perfect for Kingsman.

 _He shouldn’t be surprised,_ Harry thinks, after seeing Eggsy beam over another compliment. _Surely someone’s told him how wonderful he is._

Harry hasn’t gotten many chances to interact with him until the twenty-four hours, and he’s surprised on how much he shares with Eggsy, from his somewhat trivial secret recipe for martinis to stories of his youth that he’s only told to Merlin.

Harry guesses that Eggsy often had to hide his true emotions and thoughts growing up, but Eggsy is an open book around him. He reveals that he wants to become a Kingsman to change his life, but also his family’s, and although eager for the day to come, he seems somewhat wary. 

“Is it hard?” Eggsy asks. “Keeping secrets all the time?”

“Exhausting,” Harry replies, taking a sip of a martini. “Find someone you can be honest with most of the time, but choose wisely. Truths are loaded weapons, Eggsy. They can be used against you if you’re not careful.”

“I’m used to lying,” Eggsy admits, with a shrug. “But I try not to make it a habit. My mum always taught me that lies have consequences. That if you tell so many, or the right one, that it could destroy people.” He doesn’t mention Lee, but it’s obvious he’s thinking of it.

“Lies save lives,” Harry says, with the careless air of a veteran. “It’s truths that are the most dangerous.”

But Eggsy had been right, in a way.

“Can’t you see that everything I’ve done has been about trying to repay him?”

Harry is an experienced spy, after all. He knows how to make it hurt.

But it makes him break, for the first time, for the first lie he told to Eggsy, yet Harry doesn’t know how to apologize to the hurt young man he’s left back home. He’s woefully unpracticed, after so many years.

 _I’ll do it in person. He deserves as much,_ he decides, stepping off the plane to Kentucky.

This and the church only confirms what he’s been lying to himself about for years: that he's a good man.


	43. the right time

Harry always wakes up and remembers that he’s alive, alive and full of possibilities. He’s no stranger to close calls or death, but this particular one has shaken him up quite a bit. Being in a coma, going through physical therapy sessions for over a year, and partially losing eyesight in his right eye certainly makes one stop and consider. Harry might not be his “old self"—and that’s fine with him. He’s still very much capable “arse-kicker,” as Eggsy says, and works in tandem with Merlin to make sure Kingsman and the world are safe, as well as keeping an eye on a certain agent…

Eggsy. Another possibility.

But the thing is: Eggsy is young. Harry’s taken young lovers before, but he cares for Eggsy far beyond he’s ever cared for anything. He knows Eggsy has more possibilities than Harry himself can ever have. Eggsy has so much life in him that it seems unfair to be selfish and potentially shackle him to a man over twice his age whose life has almost all been Kingsman. Eggsy has family, friends, and a steady (in the loosest terms) job. He doesn’t need this.

So Harry waits for the right time.

And Eggsy also waits, for the best time he can confess his love to someone who doesn’t seem to want him back.


	44. the morgue

Eggsy is the first one to sign up for rescue missions to retrieve Harry Hart, and he keeps insisting, “Valentine has never shot anyone before, and he never checked the body, Rox, the heroes always live in the end; he’ll be fine, you’ll see…”

And Merlin’s fingers tremble on the keys when Eggsy’s glasses pick up a body in the twentieth morgue. “Eggsy,” he pleads, before the young man can step closer. “Eggsy, you don’t have to—”

But Eggsy sees.

“No,” he whispers, fingers reaching out to touch the too-pale face, the bloody exit wound. “No. That’s not Harry.”

“Eggsy…” Merlin’s throat tightens, but he forces the next words out: “Eggsy, that is Harry. I’m so sorry, lad.”


	45. “Can’t you stay alive for more than one year? Is that really too much to ask?”

“You know, this is really getting old.”

“Don’t yell at me,” Harry says, voice plaintive, but after over thirty years of friendship, Merlin knows when he’s being over-dramatic to induce pity, and it hardly ever worked in his favor. “I just woke up from a coma.” 

“You cannot keep _doing_ this,” Merlin snaps. “Do you know how many MIAs and KIAs are redacted on your file?” 

“To be fair, I didn’t exactly die the last time,” Harry points out, like the little shit he is. “My heart never stopped; I just passed o _—”_

 _“Oh, shut up,”_ Merlin hisses. “Do you ever consider what you put us through? After the biggest slaughter the world has ever seen, we had to bury you. We had a _funeral_. It killed me to call off the search, but Kingsman was in no position to search for every agent, especially one who seemed to have dropped off the map, and oh, _shot in the head_.”

Reaching up, Harry lightly grazes the eyepatch that everyone’s still getting used to. “It wasn’t exactly my fault,” he says, but his gaze lowers, clearly remembering how he’d ended up losing that eye in the first place. 

Merlin sighs, feeling momentarily guilty. What use is it to yell at his friend like this? What’s done is done, and in the end, Harry’s alive. Again. 

“I’m glad you’re back,” he admits. “But you gave us all quite a fright, and those knocks to your head can’t be good for you down the line.” Then, “Eggsy waited for you to wake up.”

He knows Harry won’t ask after Eggsy right away because he’s a prideful bastard, but deserves to know the state of the young man pacing outside the hallway that afternoon, still in his uniform with the medals clinking together with each step. Roxy had been with him, holding his hand for moral support, while Jack murmured gruff reassurances: “Hey, hey, he’ll be fine. All right? Sit down, breathe, he’ll be okay.” 

 _Is he going to be all right?_ Eggsy had asked, causing Merlin to experience a brief wave of deja vu. He’d looked so young then, as young as when he’d been a recruit with a tiny pug and a boiler suit, and Merlin cursed Harry, chest rising and falling in time to the machines, praying, _Come on, come on, we need another miracle._

“Where is he?” Harry begins to sit up, as if expecting Eggsy to walk through the door any moment. A hand runs briefly through his hair, free of pomade—vain bastard—and settled into wayward curls. 

“In America. Statesman’s quite taken with him, and if we aren’t careful, they might steal him away.” Merlin pauses, noticing the clench and unclench of Harry’s hands on the hospital bed. “Oh, stop it, he’s not going to leave. He’s Galahad.” 

Harry smiles. It’s a soft one, a rare thing compared to his dry smirks and bored simpers. “He is,” he murmurs. “I cannot be prouder.” 

The door then opens, Eggsy crashing through, glasses askew and his left cuff singed. A strand of dark blond hair hangs over his face, but Eggsy doesn’t seem to notice or care, staring a bit open-mouthed at Harry laying in the hospital bed. 

Merlin’s about to ask how he got back so early, but instead steps back when Eggsy approaches, hands wringing as if he wants to touch but can’t. 

“God _damn_ it, Harry,” Eggsy says, smiling through his slightly wet eyes and wobbling voice. “Can’t you stay alive for more than one year? Is that really too much to ask?” 

Harry reaches out an open palm, and when Eggsy takes it, covers Eggsy’s hand, fingers resting on top of Eggsy’s scraped knuckles. His gaze lifts to meet Eggsy’s, openly fond and affectionate, and what passes between them is like a sigh. “I missed you, too.”

Merlin takes that as his cue to leave, his last sight being Eggsy kneeling to rest his brow on the hospital gown-covered chest, shoulders shaking and hand still clasped firmly within Harry’s. 


	46. not a gentleman

After Kentucky, Eggsy had stepped into the persona of Harry Hart: gentleman spy, each word and action crafted perfectly. There were the impeccable suits, the gelled swoop of hair, and the stiff manners that had an occasional witty one-liner attached. He spoke in an accent that had his mum tilt her head in confusion and only allowed it to slip if he indulged in too much alcohol. 

But when Harry comes back from the Statesman headquarters, miraculously alive but understandably irritated at having to catch up with everything he missed, Eggsy realizes that the Harry Hart he slipped on like impenetrable armor and a comfort blanket is not the real Harry Hart. 

Harry Hart is the kind of man who wears a shirt and windbreaker with trouser pants, then curls up in the evening with a twenty-year-old, ratty, red robe and pressed, white pyjama bottoms, hair in messy curls. Harry Hart is the kind of man who puts Mr. Pickle in Halloween costumes and Santa caps and birthday hats to mark special occasions. Harry Hart is the kind of man who mutters comments at boring dinner parties that make Eggsy choke on his wine.

Harry is serious, of course, and can take out more than ten underpaid goons in less than three minutes. But he’s not so serious that he can’t stop by fast food restaurants and present them to Eggsy as “fine dining” (”Because,” Harry explains patiently, “there’s wine, too. Now, let’s see which one would pair best with parmos and steak bakes.”) 

And he’s not so stiff and posh that he can’t kiss Eggsy in HQ (much to Merlin’s consternation). 

It’s after Harry swears for five solid minutes after another souffle collapses in the oven, then for another five as the repressed bloke on the telly breaks his bird’s heart to protect her from the villains gunning for them that Eggsy thinks that maybe Harry isn’t the exact archetype of a gentleman, but that’s fine with him. 

He’s perfect as he is. 


	47. don't mess with merlin

“You know,” Eggsy says, “I’m glad I’m not Merlin.” **  
**

Harry takes another thoughtful sip of tea from his thermos. “Trust me,” he says, with a sigh reserved for dangerously-wobbling stacks of paperwork, “you won’t want to be me, either.”

“You get lunch breaks, though, and get to stretch your legs at least,” Eggsy points out, waving at the halls they’re currently strolling through. “And you got a snogging partner to keep you going. Merlin has…computers.”

Harry laughs. “Trust me, he’s always happier around technology than the horrible inner workings of human beings.”

“So, recruitment training must be hell,” Eggsy notes, hearing the chorus of grunting and groaning from the nearby gym. “It makes me want to bake him something.”

Harry looks at him very seriously. “If you give him that checkerboard cake you just baked for me, I will consider that an act of infidelity.”

“I’ll just whip up some jam thumbprint cookies.” Eggsy reaches over and pecks him on the cheek. “Shall we give him a bit of a levity?”

“How generous of you,” Harry dryly says. “But I know you just want to see if anyone’s punched Daniel yet.”

“That, too,” Eggsy admits, shrugging. “I’m putting money on Alyce or Pierre.”

“Pierre is far too level-headed,” Harry argues. “I’m betting on your candidate. Trust me, darling, he’s a bit…passionate. Not that,” he amends quickly, “it’s a bad thing. It’s one of your most endearing qualities that I love about you.”

Eggsy rolls his eyes, but allows Harry to kiss him on the forehead. In HQ, Harry usually refrains from blatant public displays of affection, but Eggsy won’t say no to occasional bursts of soppiness. It’s one of the things that makes Harry who he is, and although Eggsy doesn’t know whether Harry doesn’t want the others to think he overly favors Eggsy or is old-fashioned in gentlemanly affections or grew up used to not being able to touch a male partner like this, Eggsy doesn’t mind. He knows Harry, when he’s safe at home, touches him and looks at him with such naked love that any doubt is erased.  

Harry leans in again, and just as his lips touch Eggsy’s, his glasses chime. Both pull away, Eggsy repressing a sigh.

“Jack’s calling, dear,” Harry says, adjusting his glasses. “I’m afraid I can’t join you, but tell Merlin hello.” He then places his hand on Eggsy’s shoulder and squeezes. “Get some rest, too. You have a mission tomorrow, after all.”

Eggsy gives him a parting kiss before pushing open the door to the gym. It’s a work of art, as far as Eggsy’s concerned—large and open, with plenty of high-end equipment and a wing where you can duck in for a post-mission massage.

But the real star of the show is the training room. Most times, it’s an ordinary set-up with rubber floor mats, a few punching bags, and a water cooler, but sometimes, the techs set it up as a simulated mission or combat situation to test agents’ skills. Eggsy’s learned to dodge bullets that won’t rip through his body, to shoot down progressively fast-moving targets, and duck through mazes.

Today, it’s ordinary, and Eggsy frowns a little in disappointment.

“Attention,” Merlin says, and the candidates freeze before moving into respectful positions Eggsy remembers from the Marines—straight spine, hands behind the back, raised chin, solemn expression. “Galahad, is there something that needs to be dealt with?”

“Just wanted to pop in,” Eggsy says. “How are you lot?”

No one says a word, looking to Merlin for permission to speak. He’s got them trained well.

“At ease,” Merlin says, after a few seconds. “You are free to reply.”

“It’s going well, sir,” Alyce says politely, and Eggsy nods at her. Roxy’s told her about Alyce’s shooting scores and talent to read lips, though her quick temper had gotten her nearly thrown out of several public schools. Beside her, Eggsy’s own candidate steals a quick glance at him, and Eggsy quickly winks at him before turning to Merlin.

“You’re an agent?” Daniel asks. He resembles Charlie a little, with the brown, wavy hair and arrogant attitude. “A real one?”

 _As opposed to what, a dummy?_ But Eggsy nods anyway. “Yes,” he says simply, noting Daniel’s brief surprise at his accent. “Bit of an old-timer, me.”

Merlin briefly cuts his eyes at him, clearly conveying he doesn’t appreciate Eggsy’s tall tales, but hey, as far as the candidates know, it’s true.

Everyone’s eyes widen, and Pierre first asks, voice barely a whisper, “Do you go out in the field often?”

Soon, everyone else begins to pepper Eggsy with questions of their own: “Did you come back from a mission?” “What’s it like?” “Do you know anyone from MI6?” “How long have you been here?” “Where are you from, really?”

The last question is, of course, from Daniel, fairly innocuous, except for the slight hint of disdain. He wonders what would have happened if Harry had gone in with him and snogged him.

Some things never change, Eggsy thinks, before rapidly going, “Yes, fairly often; classified; very difficult but fun at times; also classified; a long time; and East London.”

“East London?” Daniel repeats, but before Eggsy can reply, Dennis says, a bit defensively, “Yeah, are you deaf or something?”

“Oi, no need to be rude.”

“I could say the same to you.”

“I was just asking—“

Alyce cuts in, “Oh, no, _you_ were—“

“You three,” Merlin intones. “Please.”

Both shut their mouths, but Daniel’s now looking at Merlin appraisingly. “Have you gone into the field before?”

“It’s not my primary job,” Merlin replies. “Now, everyone, let’s see what this agent thinks of your combat skills. Rush him.”

Eggsy has enough time to shoot Merlin an accusing look before throwing Percival’s recruit onto the mat, then catching Tristan’s and using him as a human shield to fend off incoming attacks, while easily knocking the others to the side. Daniel nearly gets him in the back, but Eggsy swings Tristan’s candidate out of the way, blocking his incoming strike and throwing him onto the mat, then smirks a bit when Pierre, Alyce, and Dennis team up, using their speed and strength to force him back.

He ends up throwing Pierre into Dennis, then judo-flipping Alyce, finishing with a little bow.

Several have their mouths open, and Merlin gives him a little approving nod. “Well done. Alyce, Dennis, Pierre, good thinking with the teamwork. Daniel, you’re quick, but try not to let your opponent grab any of your limbs. The rest of you will need some work. Agent Galahad, no need for unnecessary theatrics.”

“I think I did good,” Eggsy protests, winking in his direction, and hears some of the candidates giggle.

“Good enough,” Merlin replies, then turns to the candidates. “Pair up, and spar. I need to discuss some matters with Galahad.”

“About tomorrow?” Eggsy asks, voice lowered.

“Yes,” Merlin says. “I want you to be careful.”

“This isn’t my first mission, Merlin.”

“It’s your first one with a bomb.”

Eggsy sighs, knowing where this is going. “I know Harry’s worried. But I’ve been top-notch with diffusion and demolition classes—”

“There’s always something that can go wrong,” Merlin says, then holds up his hand when Eggsy begins to protest. “I’m confident in you, but I’ll be in your ear the whole time, just in case.”

“Harry asked you to handle this one, did he?”

“He did,” Merlin confirms. He doesn’t have to say something like _he cares about you very much_ or _he’s worried you’ll go the same way as your father._

Eggsy wordlessly nods.

“Now, if you want to help a little before you go home, feel free to show them some pointers.” Merlin gestures towards them. “But they’re going to go down to the track in a few minutes, so please try not to cause too many injuries.”

“The track? Merlin, you never let up, do you?” But Eggsy takes Merlin’s suggestion, roaming around the room to demonstrate a few pointers. Pierre eyes him admiringly as he adjusts the young man’s stance—Harry would have a field day if he knew his candidate was beginning to get smitten with Eggsy, not like he’d tell—and the other candidates try to pry more information about what he does out of him. Eggsy’s mostly mum on it, of course, but embellishes a little for Dennis; he’s got to impress his proposal, after all.

When he comes to Daniel, who’s already subdued his partner, Daniel asks, voice low,  “Why can’t you teach us?”

“I have a day job.”

“And what’s Merlin’s?”

Eggsy senses more disdain, frowning as Daniel looks towards Merlin, eyeing the woolen jumper and gray slacks and clipboard. “I would have died a few times without him,” Eggsy says firmly.

“But you know your stuff,” Daniel protests, voice wheedling. “You’re a field agent. Setting us up with some…pencil pusher is—”

“Daniel.” Merlin’s voice cuts clearly through the air, and both Daniel and Eggsy freeze. “Come over here for a minute.”

 _Oh, shit,_ Eggsy thinks.

“Eggsy, you too.” Merlin passes Eggsy his clipboard, then rolls up his sleeves. “Some of you may have doubts that I don’t know what I’m doing. However…” He looks at Daniel, who’s already looking like he’s regretting saying anything. “If Daniel here can lay a hit on me, Galahad will teach the rest of the combat training.”

Eggsy glares at Merlin, but the quartermaster doesn’t acknowledge him.

“Just one hit?” Daniel asks.

“Just one,” Merlin says.

Daniel nods. _Shouldn’t be too hard,_ he’s obviously thinking.

The two move onto the training mat, and all the other candidates and Eggsy scoot so their backs are nearly touching the wall.

Eggsy’s never seen Merlin fight—he’s seen a younger Merlin punch a younger Harry for being a twat during the trials, thanks to Kingsman’s love of recording everything past and present—and he can’t help but wonder what will happen. Merlin may be an absolute magician in holding Kingsman together and keeping his agents alive, and Eggsy knows better than to doubt him, yet…

Without a ready, begin, Daniel makes the first move, swinging his fist in a mean right hook, and Merlin neatly steps out of his way. Daniel’s punch goes wide, so wide that he nearly stumbles, then comes back with another punch, this one so forceful that it sends him stumbling nearly off the mat.

Merlin barely moves; he simply steps and ducks and spins around Daniel’s kicks and punches, obviously toying with him, and Eggsy quickly closes his mouth, just as Merlin sticks out his foot as Daniel charges forward with a grunt.

Daniel goes flying right, arms splaying, and there’s a brief wince from a few of the candidates when something thumps hard against the opposite wall —possibly his head. 

“Match, for Merlin,” Eggsy announces, with a bit of applause. He smirks, just as Daniel feebly stirs on the ground. “Let that be a lesson to you all. Manners maketh man.”


	48. sharing a cab

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from the "cliche AU + pairing" askbox game on tumblr! This one is phaeleah's request :)

He should have known that he couldn’t have a nice night out.

Luckily for him, Ryan and Jamal had distracted Poodle and the rest long enough for Eggsy to book it out of the club, weaving through the crowd. He still wishes that he’d been able to finish his drink, but with Dean sending out his mates to teach Eggsy a “lesson,” it’s the least of his problems.

And that’s how Dean never gets caught: he makes everyone else do his dirty work for him for his hands remain clean. Eggsy can’t count the times on his hands where his misdemeanors and marks on his record should have gone to Dean. He normally keeps his head down and does what he can to alleviate Dean’s constantly-brewing temper, but there was no way he was going to deliver to a client that had made it clear that a _no_ was not respected—not to mention that the fuzz is beginning to close in on some of Dean’s clients.

But Dean doesn’t give a shit about his stepson’s safety; if Eggsy were locked up one of these days, he wouldn’t shed a tear, much less cough up bail money.

Of course, no average stepdad would send his goons to play their favorite game of smashing Eggsy’s face in. He isn’t going to a hospital this month, not after they’d been late on their electricity bill.

“Oi!” Poodle shouts, easily heard over the noise of the crowd. “There he is!”

He sees a man in a too-nice suit stepping into a cab and makes a decision. Sprinting as fast as he can, he grabs the car door, just as the man stiffens, hand reaching towards the inside of his coat.

“I ain’t gonna rob you, I swear!” Though, if course, it did look that way. “Please, can I share the cab?” Then, quickly, he adds, “I have money.”

The man eyes him up and down, from his trainers to his snapback, and Eggsy’s steeling himself to be left at the curb and at the mercy of Poodle and Dean’s dogs when, to Eggsy’s surprise, he nods sharply.

Eggsy chants _thank you_ s and _sorry_ s as he climbs in, slamming the door just as he hears Rottie yell, “Where the _fuck_ did he go?”

He’s just barely buckled himself in when the stranger asks, “Friends of yours?”

“No,” Eggsy says. “Definitely not.”

“Ran into some trouble?”

“More like out of it—for now, at least,” Eggsy replied, then pats down his pockets for his wallet. “Shit. I—”

“Not to worry,” the man says calmly. He’s nearly seated with his legs crossed, umbrella clutched between his hands folded on his lap. Briefly, Eggsy wonders why he’s got one if there’s no rain, but then, the man turns his head to look at him, and Eggsy loses higher brain function.

This isn’t the best time to ogle a stranger, especially someone whose car he’d sort of taken over, but Eggsy can’t help but notice the warm brown eyes, the coif of hair, and the suit—Eggsy hasn’t worn anything as nice as it, but he can appreciate how the thin stripes highlight the man’s broad shoulders and long limbs.

He coughs, forcing himself to get back to business. “I, uh, can give you my number, and we can set up a spot—”

“It’s all right,” the man interrupts. “Besides, I’m out of town for a few weeks, starting tomorrow.”

“For vacation?”

“Business trip.”

Eggsy looks at the man’s suit again. Lawyer? CEO? “What sort of business?” Or maybe he shouldn’t have asked that. Why would someone dressed as posh as that be near a local nightclub? Maybe he’s with the mafia, one of the bigger gangs, a dirty cop, even—

“I’m a tailor.”

He wrinkles his nose. Now that was a bit unexpected. “Didn’t know tailors got to go abroad.”

“We have many international partners all over the world, and some of us get together to discuss, say, how to appeal to various customers, expand our company, and entertain various clients.”

“But I’m guessing you go to fancy hotels and restaurants and all that?”

The man nods.

“Sounds like a vacation, bruv,” Eggsy says.

The stranger laughs. “A little, I suppose. A bit less glamorous than many people think.”

Privately, Eggsy doubts that. A vacation for him and his mum used to be a trip to a restaurant that’s not McDonald’s and watching a movie from his mum’s DVD collection. And when Dean came along…well, any night where he’s away is a vacation.

“Where do you need to go?” the man then asks.

“I can get out anytime,” Eggsy quickly says.

“That’s all right. Just tell me where you need to go. I’m not in a rush.”

“Rowley Way, then,” Eggsy says defiantly. He can’t go home, not now, but Jamal or Ryan will let him crash overnight; Eggsy’s sure he can hide out until his friends return.

The man only nods, no sense of disapproval on his face. He leans forward to murmur to the driver, and Eggsy looks around, a screen attached to the backseat and a few bottles of whiskey in the back. He’s never heard of a cab like this. Is there some sort of specialized business that caters to toffs? Is there champagne stashed in the back? A mini hot tub?

“I beg your pardon,” the man now says, and Eggsy turns to face him, “but we never introduced ourselves. I’m Harry.”

“Eggsy,” he replies, then shakes the outstretched hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he adds, in an affected posh tone.

Harry smiles, and Eggsy quickly stomps on the treacherous fluttering in his chest. “Likewise, though this was an unconventional meeting.”

“Well, I’m sure you don’t get people trying to elbow their way into your cabs,” Eggsy says. “Must have made your evening more exciting.”

“It did,” Harry says.

“Were you at the club?”

“I was, but…it appears that I got stood up.”

Eggsy frowns, strangely indignant for this man he just met. “Who’d do that to a bloke like you?”

“Oh, I’m sure we got our dates crossed, but no matter.” Harry smiles, as

If he’s in on a private joke. “I’m sure I’d see him again.”

Him. Eggsy’s stomach leaps in a mixture of disappointment and elation. It figures that when he’s got a chance with a bloke that the bloke in question isn’t interested or is involved with someone else. Though, since Harry’s date ditched him…

“Wouldn’t mind seeing you again, so if that bloke knows what he’s doing…” Eggsy trails off at Harry’s amused smile. “What?”

“It’s not quite what you were thinking of, but I appreciate the sentiment.” _Oh, god._ “You do know how to flatter.”

Eggsy preens a bit. “Yeah?”

“Indeed,” Harry says, and can’t seem to keep the smile off his face. “I…”

“Gentleman,” the driver interrupts, and Eggsy barely manages to stifle a groan. “We’ve arrived.”

“Thank you,” Eggsy says, and just as the car moves to a stop, he reluctantly places a hand on the door. “So, uh…maybe I’ll see you around?”

Harry nods. “Hopefully.”

That’s probably a no, then. He doubts Harry would come looking for him, especially if he doesn’t have his number or anything. “All right,” he says, then open his side of the cab. “Bye.”

As he steps out, his medal swings out from his jacket, metal gleaming from the streetlights, and he stops to tuck it underneath his shirt. He’s never been willing to chance leaving it at home, where Dean can find it and pawn one of the only things that’s left of his dad.

“Wait,” he hears Harry say, and when Eggsy looks back, Harry’s staring at him, at his chest where the medal rests against his heart. “Is that…a medal?”

Eggsy nods. “My dad’s.” He brings it out again, dangling it slightly so it catches the light from the lamps outside. “He was a Marine.”

“And you’re from Rowley Way?”

Eggsy stares at Harry, who’s looking like he’s seen a ghost. “Uh, yeah.” Is this guy cracking up? “Why—”

“I see,” Harry abruptly says.“ Good night, Eggsy.”

“Good night, Harry,” Eggsy replies, confused. He hasn’t closed the door yet, so he moves to do it, but Harry shakes his head.

“I can do that,” he says. “And Eggsy? Do you remember the words?”

“Oxfords, not brogues,” Eggsy recites, then pauses. “Wait. How did you—”

But the cab’s engine is starting, and just as Eggsy starts forward, the door slams, whisking Harry away into the night.

It’s too fast to give chase, and it’s getting late. With a shrug and another glance behind him, Eggsy begins his walk back.


	49. got each other's bag

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another one from the "cliche AU +pairing" thing (thebarofgold's prompt!)

It’s always a hustle and bustle at Heathrow, and not for the first time, Harry wishes that intensive undercover missions didn’t involve traveling by ordinary methods of transport. True, he got to have a seat in first class, but not being on a Kingsman-issued plane meant increasing chances of plane-jacking, terrorist threats, engine failure, and awful lines at the TSA. There’s nothing more frustrating than finally arriving home, but still having to go through the tedious process of passing through a brief security check, locating his luggage, and hailing a cab. 

Luckily, though, Arthur didn’t expect him to debrief until tomorrow, and it does help that Arthur is, in fact, an old friend of his and has still not stopped handling Harry’s missions.

“Galahad, well done,” Merlin—because no matter what happens, Arthur will always be Merlin to him—says. “Glad to have you back on home soil.”

“Happy to be back,” Harry says into his mobile, ever the picture of a constant on-the-go businessman. Talking to oneself is never a good way to attract attention, especially in crowded places like this. “I just have to get my bags.”

“Excellent. Sorry to leave you, but I have a meeting with our new Lancelot.”

“Tell her I said hello and to remind her uncle that he still owes me money from our last card game.”

“Will do,” and with a click, Merlin signs off.

Harry sighs, then dutifully walks towards the baggage claim, following the signs. Overhead, announcements for upcoming or cancelled flights blare as people shuffle under the weight of their suitcases, looking around as if they’ve been displaced on a deserted island. Some hold coffee cups, others have full water bottles, and a few haul carriers with small, curious-eyed dogs. Harry wonders how Mr. Pickle would have handled it, then immediately shudders at the possibility. He would have howled from the airport and back.

Finally, he reaches the conveyor belt, where other people are standing around, impatiently checking the time or leaning against someone, eyes half-closed. Beside him is a young man in a suit—not Savile Row, but still bespoke. Disappointingly, the jacket, tie, and trousers are plain black with a plain white button-down. True, the dull colors are practical for travelling, but Harry can’t help but think that a touch of color would highlight the man’s eyes, blue-green like the misty Welsh countryside, and hair that rivals gems that he’s seen on queens’ arms.  

The man turns, and Harry quickly looks away. It wouldn’t do to be caught ogling like a university boy imbued with too much alcohol. It isn’t gentlemanly, and Harry knows from growing up that certain men who noticed another man looking upon them in a non-platonic manner tended to posture with sharp-tongued slurs or threats of violence. Harry could handle both, but he’d rather not deal with a situation like this in a crowded airport.

Finally, the red light above the baggage carousel beeps, and the conveyor belt starts moving. Harry searches for the simple, navy blue suitcases with his name tag on it and seizes it as it comes his way, relieved to be soon heading home. He immediately searches for the exit, pulling out his mobile to call for a Kingsman cab, already imagining the selection of whiskey bottles in the backseat.

Just as he takes a step forward, someone slams into him, sending them both to the ground, and his mobile’s saved from bouncing along the cesspool that is an international airport by his quick reflexes. However, his suitcase has been wrenched from his grip, his hand having let it go to break his fall, and he hears an agitated shout and a groan from the person above him.

It’s the man from the baggage claim, who’s slowly getting himself back on his feet, gently telling a tearful young girl and an apologetic mother that it’s all right, that he’s fine, and that there’s nothing to worry about. Harry smiles in a no worries fashion, hauling himself up off the ground, then finds himself facing the stranger, holding his suitcase.

“Shit,” the young man swears, then hands it to him with a sheepish smile. “My bad.”

“Thank you,” Harry replies, with a brief smile. “It’s quite all right; it wasn’t your fault. I suppose this is yours?”

“Yes, thank you, too.” Taking back his bag, the man smiles back, eyes taking him in. Harry detects a hint of a South London accent and the smell of peppermint gum, probably a prevention against ears popping during landing. Even though he clearly looks exhausted, and his tie is askew, he still looks rather attractive.

If Harry were an ordinary man, he’d continue the conversation, hopefully leading up to a point where he may ask the stranger for his number, but Harry is not such a man. Oh, Kingsman doesn’t forbid agents having romantic interests outside the organization, but having them—and a family besides—is fraught with difficulties. One could cite many divorces, custody battles, and bitter rounds of binge-drinking as a result of trying to juggle being a full-time agent and someone in a committed relationship. And Harry is too paranoid, too well-trained to begin a one night stand with someone who may prove a danger to Kingsman.

Instead, he says his goodbyes, nodding politely, and begins walking over to the drop-off spot.

* * *

Once he walks through the door, Harry puts down his luggage with a sigh and considers heading straight for the bedroom. It’s still late afternoon, but he feels as if he can sleep in his own bed, surrounded by a top-notch security system instead of bugs and cameras in every room. Jonathan Wilcox had been a bored London businessman with a need to indulge in illegal vices away from his brooding wife and dull job, along with the money to spend on such things, and Harry had loathed every second of being him.

As always after undercover missions like this one, it will take him awhile to become Harry Hart again, and it requires a few simple steps to start. He makes a list in his head of what he must do: unpack his belongings, do laundry, order takeaway or see what’s left in the freezer, shower, and set an alarm for his debrief tomorrow. And tomorrow, since agents who’ve been on long undercover missions have a grace period before being assigned back into the field, he can train or come home to relax.

He might as well dump whatever can be put in the wash right now and put away a few of his toiletries in the proper places, and that way, he can relax more easily without tasks looming in his way. With another sigh, Harry heads over to his suitcase, rolling it over so he can open it, and freezes.

This is not his.

There are suits, yes, but he’s certain he didn’t pack a tuxedo. Under closer inspection, he realizes that the clothes are not his size; they’re made for someone shorter than he is and less leaner—stockier, with more muscle, like a boxer—and with less broad shoulders. None of the Kingsman devices are in here—the poison pens, darts for his watch, the extra pair of glasses, or parts that make up the cigarette lighter—nor his tablet.

Instead, there’s a ballpoint pen, some ammunition, an electric shaver, a gun that is not his own, and what looks like a bug detector.

It’s possible that this switch had not been accidental. As per protocol, Harry never carries his mission file with him or any hint of his true identity, but there are always people on the lookout. They may not know his name or exactly who he works for, but if they piece together that he is not just a simple tailor from Savile Row or a greedy businessman…

He quickly touches his glasses. “Merlin,” he says quickly, “I may have been compromised.”

* * *

“This is not a real identity,” Merlin informs him later. “It’s clearly a paper one.”

Harry paces, unable to rest since he’d filled in Merlin on the details of what happened at the airport. His dinner is still untouched, and he doesn’t dare to go to bed for fear of missing any important calls or being caught unawares at a potential intruder. “Did you receive the bag? Fingerprints, DNA, or—”

“I got it,” Merlin confirms, “and we’re in luck. It belongs to a certain Gary Unwin.”

His heart nearly stops, relief and surprise and guilt twisting in his chest. “Unwin? As in…”

“Lee Unwin, yes. And it looks like his son’s been recruited to another organization.” Merlin then pauses. “We will have to arrange a meeting with MI6.”

* * *

All in all, it’s a little cliche, but the proposed meeting is in St. James’s Park at five pm sharp. Harry brings the suitcase, along with some bread to feed the ducks, and is met with a familiar sight. The young man turns, scattering bread into the water, and nods. “You’re late.”

“Only by a few minutes,” Harry says, placing the suitcase down in front of him. “I have your belongings.”

“I do, as well,” Gary replies, displaying Harry’s. “So, mind giving me back our property? Our quartermaster would be displeased otherwise.”

“I can say the same for mine.” Harry then chuckles. “Are you waiting for a count of three?”

Gary laughs. “No, we can just switch.”

They do, and Gary says, “Call me—though, I guess, you know that if you remember me?”

“I do.” Harry looks at him. Lee’s son is almost as tall as him, though with longer and lighter hair than his father’s. Lee, he recalls, had always looked quite serious, but Gary’s eyes shine with youth and hidden humor. “Of course, you do look different from when I saw you last.”

“It would be strange if I still looked like that now.” Eggsy smiles. “You…you don’t look a lot different, really. Maybe…”

“Old?” Harry finishes.

“Maybe,” Eggsy replies, but continues, “I mean, not old. Old _er_. Not that—I mean, you don’t look half bad for your age. At all.” He shakes his head. “God, I’m supposed to be…” He then mouths _a spy_.

“It’s all right,” Harry says. He can’t deny he’s amused, though. “You look good. Your job seems to suit you.”

“Still a newbie, though,” Eggsy says. “I didn’t join up until after V-Day, after my stepdad got caught up in it.”

“I’m sorry.“

“Don’t be, he was an arse. Anyway, with him gone, my mum and I got to start over, and long story short, I saved someone important. He was so grateful that he took me in.” Eggsy shrugs. “I guess the medal had something to do with it, too, but it all worked out. Not such a bad life.”

“You would have done well with my organization as well,” Harry says, and Eggsy laughs, shaking his head. 

“I don’t know, bruv, you seem to have a bunch of weird tests and shit. Hesketh,” he says, at Harry’s surprise. “He was making a big stink after V-Day and got tied up with some disgruntled other recruits in America recently. I guess you were away?”

“For a few months,” Harry admits, then scowls. “It figures. He was a bit of a shit, a pampered godson of someone important in our organization.”

“That’s how it almost always is,” Eggsy says, then checks his watch. “Well, I’m supposed to get back to the old grind soon, but…why don’t we try to meet for dinner sometime? It’ll be interesting to get to know someone in my line of work—for, uh, inter-organization cooperation and all. And after V-Day, you know, it’s important to open up lines of communication and get to know each other better, you know?”

“Indeed,” Harry replies, noting the mischievous glint in Eggsy’s eyes, along with the faint upward tug of his lips. “I won’t object to some diplomatic relations of our own.”


	50. The Rose Petal Incident

The Rose Petal Incident was a night to remember for the wrong reasons. On a night where there was no mission, no paperwork, no familial/friend obligations, Eggsy prepared to wine and dine Harry in the manners Harry’s done several times. The thing was that he didn’t want to go out to some restaurant where there are no prices on the menu and he has to have an internal debate on whether to tip the bathroom attendant. So with the help of some romantic movies, he planned a lovely evening in, dragging out the white tablecloth, some candles, a home-cooked meal, and his best tuxedo.

Everything was set to plan, and they enjoyed a delicious meal. Eggsy had a dessert waiting in the fridge, but at the looks Harry was sending him over the wine, he decided to change things up a little. A spy is always prepared for these things, after all.

So, the clothes come off, as they wont to do, and Eggsy had to shoo off JB when they’re going upstairs. The house was still plunged in darkness, so they nearly tripped several times up the stairs. Harry offered to turn on the light, but Eggsy wanted what he’d done to be a surprise.

The door opened. There was a soft playlist of golden oldies tunes. The bed was even made—though, in hindsight, it didn’t really matter.

As they fell back on the bed, Harry wondered about the sensation pressing against his back and shoulders and arse, but got quite distracted once Eggsy’s hands began roaming. But it was always at the back of his mind. Feathers? No, not the right texture, no quills. And why would Eggsy do—oh.

And he began to understand.

The slow itching. The heat on his skin. When he strained his eyes, he could make out soft, rounded shapes decorating the surface of the bed, spread around in a heart shape.

Rose petals.

As Harry was a romantic, he loved roses, but roses did not love him. This proved frustrating, and no matter what anyone said, deep red roses could not be replaced by other flower for tokens of affection. Merlin had joked about symbolism and metaphors and all that tripe, but Harry had been raised to be a doctor. He wasn’t falling for that analysis bullshit.

Somehow, though, he’d neglected to tell all of this to Eggsy.

“Eggsy,” he said, trying to keep his voice light, “can you hand me the EpiPen in the drawer?”

To his credit, Eggsy reacted quickly without frenzied shouting or hand-wringing, but stabbing a needle into the resisting flesh of a thigh and waiting for the lurid red rash to go down killed any thought of amorous activities for the night.

The dessert Eggsy planned ended up going to Michelle and Daisy, as the star feature was a small crown of roses sitting on the top.


	51. motel roommates AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After V-Day, Harry runs into a familiar stranger.

It’s the sort of hotel that tourists wouldn’t enter unless they had nowhere else to go, but Harry strides in confidently, even though he’s not outfitted with a bespoke suit today. Instead, his civilian clothes—dark jeans, grey turtleneck, cheap-looking glasses, and battered army jacket, all bulletproof—blend in with the establishment, with its dirty windows and faded paint, chipping away to reveal the rotting wood underneath. 

Saying a polite hello to the bored-looking woman behind the check-in desk, Harry pulls out money from a battered wallet and requests a room that he knows, thanks to careful research, is right across from his mark’s. The man is yet another criminal profiting of V-Day, plotting to take down the Prime Minister in a few days in order to carefully maneuver his own candidate into position.

Recently, said candidate had been acting quite suspiciously with unexplained money trails in his account and knowledge of the Prime Minister’s exact whereabouts on the day of his speech, catching the attention of Kingsman. Percival, mercifully spared from the carnage of V-Day due to his mission in the depths of the Amazon rainforest, was tailing the candidate, and it is Harry’s job to eliminate his target before his plan could come into fruition. 

And this is a test, Harry knows. Merlin had vouched for him, as did the medical staff, but the new Arthur’s wary, wary about his ability to continue being a field agent after what happened—

“Excuse me?” someone asks, as the front desk attendant slides the room key across the counter. “Can I get a room?“

“I’m sorry,” the attendant says, gesturing towards Harry. “But this gentleman just booked the last one.”

“But…” The new arrival looks between him and the sign, now flipped to _No Vacancy_. “I really need somewhere to stay for the night.” 

“Try the one two streets down.” The attendant begins to pull out a pen, likely going to draw a map for him, but the young man—early twenties, with a beat-up bag and dark circles underneath his eyes—shakes his head. 

“It’s…I can’t…this is all I have.” It obviously pains the young man to say it, let alone to pull out a small wad of crumpled bills. His cheeks burn red in shame, and he refuses to look either the attendant or Harry in the eye. “Please.” 

“I’m sorry, but we really do not have any rooms left. Unless this gentleman offers—”

“I will,” Harry says, ignoring Merlin’s squawk in his ear. Turning to the young man, he asks, “One night?”  

Swallowing, he nods silently.

“All right, then.” Harry doesn’t have to worry like the average man about a stranger knocking him out—or simply just dumping his body into the tub—and fleeing with his possessions. “I believe we all found a solution to our problems.”

The attendant gestures to the guest book. “Sign here, please. You too, sir,” he adds, looking up at Harry. 

Harry gestures for the young man to go first, watching him write  _Gary U._ in near-illegible scrawl. Their fingers touch when Gary hands over the ballpoint pen, and Harry can’t help but notice the chewed cuticles and bruised knuckles. He signs his alias’s name, then nods at the attendant. 

Gary follows, somewhat reluctantly. Harry’s used to being tracked, and he knows that Gary’s looking at him, assessing whether he’s a threat or not. 

Merlin’s now silent in his ear, no doubt building up to a steady stream of criticism when Harry’s alone. Truth be told, Harry admits that he had been impulsive—foolish, even—but what’s done is done. He could always amnesia-dart the boy, but it didn’t seem right somehow. 

They enter the room, Gary stepping back to allow Harry in first. Surveying the space—one bed, a tiny nightstand, a TV, a thin closet, and a bathroom off to the side—Harry watches as Gary puts down his rucksack as closest to the door as possible. 

“I can call for a rollaway cot,” Harry says. 

“No, take the bed,” Gary replies. “You’re ol—need it more than I do.” 

Smiling a little at Gary’s lapse, Harry shakes his head. “I will be comfortable.”

“Fine.” Gary agrees, folding his arms across his chest. “’m leaving early in the morning, so…guess it’s fair. Sort of.” 

“In the morning?” Harry asks, trying to sound not too interested by opening the closet and putting his bag in. Gary’s not looking his way, so Harry quietly slips a few things into the hotel safe, making sure it’s securely locked before turning back to face Gary. 

“Yeah, going to Wales.” 

“Wales? Visiting family?”

“Don’t really got that,” Gary mutters. “V-Day.”

Something squeezes in his chest, but Gary is not the kind of man, he senses, that would welcome words of pity. "I see,” he only says.

“Well, I do have my nan. She’s offering to take me in for a bit,” Gary says quickly, as if trying to make up for something. “So I’m not completely homeless. I just gotta…“ He shakes his head. "Never mind. Sorry.” 

“No, it’s quite all right.” Harry tactfully looks away as Gary scrubs at his nose, passing over his eyes briefly. “I’m going to have a look about, maybe a smoke. Care to join me?,” he asks, even though he senses Gary wants a little privacy of his own.

“No,” Gary says. “Thanks, though.”

As soon as Harry closes the door behind him, his glasses chime. 

“Galahad,” Merlin intones, full of disapproval. “Need I remind you that your file clearly stated that you’d check into the motel alone? How are you going to do complete your mission?”

“The boy’s going to stay only one night,” Harry says, voice low. “And since I will be here for a while, it will work itself out.”

“And what if the mark were to leave tomorrow?”

"He won’t.”

“Mm-hm.” Merlin sounds skeptical. “Galahad, I know you have a good heart, but…everyone has been affected by V-Day. You can’t compromise your mission for one man who has lost his family.” 

“It’s not compromised,” Harry insists, stepping outside.

“Arthur—”

“Arthur should not be doubting my capabilities. I have been in the field since I was twenty.”

“You haven’t been slashed across the throat before—”

“Chester didn’t succeed, and I have passed all my tests.” Harry shakes his head, pulling out a box of cigarettes, something without any of Kingsman’s tricks, marely a tool to sell his alias. He lights the cigarette and waves it around himself so Gary won’t be suspicious about the lack of the scent of smoke. It’s a small detail, but keeping covers are an essential part of being an agent. 

“I am _fully_ capable,” Harry adds, then signs off.

* * *

The rest of the evening passes uneventfully. Harry listens to the sounds of the mark typing in his room through his glasses, having placed a bug on the door before he’d come back, while pretending to watch something on the television. Gary sits on the rollaway cot, eyes darting towards Harry every so often. He doesn’t seem interested in conversation at all, only to shake his head when Harry asks if he wants dinner. 

Harry later buys two sandwiches from the hotel’s shop, setting one in front of Gary silently. Gary opens his mouth, about to object, but the lure of hunger is too strong. Tearing apart the plastic wrapping, Gary eats, muttering a _thanks_ when Harry passes by to throw his own trash away. 

When Gary steps into the loo to brush his teeth, Harry slips a few bills into Gary’s bag. He then notices a few pictures in a plastic bag, the top one showing a blonde woman and a dark-haired man, smiling at the camera. The woman’s wearing a white dress, the man a button-down and bowtie, both looking familiar. 

Gary U. Gary _Unwin_. 

“What are you doing?” 

Gary’s standing in the doorway, fists already up, understandably so, since Harry knows what this looks like. 

“Gary,” he says, raising his hands. “I was not attempting to—”

“I don’t have anything you could possibly want. But you let me room with you and bought me dinner. You’re regretting that? Want compensation? There’s not—”

“No,” Harry quickly says. “I don’t. I just…I know these people.” He pulls out the photograph. “Lee and Michelle Unwin. You’re their son.” 

“…How did you know them?” Gary asks warily. 

“Your father and I served together.” Harry sees Gary’s eyes flicker to his military jacket, part of his cover but thankfully proving helpful in this instance. “Yes, the Marines. He was a good man.” He passes the photograph back, watching Gary hold it gently in his hands. “I…he saved my life.” 

Gary looks at him, thoughts clearly written across his face, and Harry thinks, _I know, I know, you don’t want me. You want your father back, and I’m so, so sorry._

“You gave me this medal,” Gary says, then pulls it out from underneath his shirt. The metal isn’t as shiny as it was seventeen years ago, but still looks as if it’s in good shape, well cared for. “Oxfords, not brogues.” 

“You didn’t use it.” 

“No.” Gary shakes his head. “My stepdad took it. Found it around his neck one day. Guess he couldn’t sell it, but he wanted it to, you know…fuck with me.” He touches it gingerly, thumb stroking against the knot of the _K_. “Got it back after V-Day.”

Whether Gary had…been with his stepfather during V-Day or not, Harry doesn’t want to know, doesn’t want to know if this young man had simply lifted the medal off of his stepfather’s body or if something else had occurred beforehand. He no longer sees the seven-year-old with the snowglobe. Gary’s eyes are old, older than they have any right to be.

“You can still call it in,” Harry finally says. 

Gary laughs sardonically. “What can you give me after all this?” 

“A job,” Harry says, even though he knows it’s not what Gary truly wants to hear. “A new start.”

Lee’s son looks at him, freshly-opened grief and open disdain colliding in his eyes. “Right,” he says flatly, then tucks away the medal, then the photograph. “I’ll think about it.” 

 _Please,_ Harry wants to say, but only nods. 

* * *

When all the lights are turned off, Harry tries to find a comfortable angle on the cot, all while Gary’s turned away from him. He’s still wearing his street clothes—shoes, too—and is clearly waiting for him to fall asleep first, so Harry deliberately turns on his side, gradually slowing down his breathing. For good measure, he closes his eyes. 

Just when he’s drifting off for real, he hears something like a muffled sniff. Harry wants to get up, ask after him, but there’s nothing he can truly do to comfort him. 

What can he even say? What could he give Gary after what he’s done? 

Frozen in place, all Harry can do is listen to the sounds of Gary sobbing quietly in the dark. 

* * *

And not to his surprise, Gary is gone the next morning.


	52. "no one needs to know"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight _Kingsman 2_ spoilers ahead!

“Harry,” the voice says. “Oh, _fuck_ , is that you?” 

Eggsy’s standing there in the doorway, hair mussed and clad in a Kingsman suit, and Harry’s breath catches. He’s bare-handed, but his fists are clenched, ready to throw a punch, and his eyes flash with shock before his arms collapse at his sides. “Oh, fuck. I thought…oh, Harry. It’s you, isn’t it?” 

“Yes,” Harry says, rising from his bed, then winces at the ache in his head. Poppy gives him painkillers, but they’re not a cure-all, and he doesn’t take them unless they’re forced down his throat. Eggsy still looks stunned, lips parted, eyes as green as the highlands he and Merlin explored as boys. 

“We gotta get you out of here,” Eggsy says, looking behind him. “Now.” 

“How did you know where to find me?” Harry asks. He’ll need a weapon, but Poppy is always careful that he has none. The safety razor is taken away each morning, the utensils he uses to eat are flimsy white plastic, and he’s always kept heavily drugged by whatever the tiny bursts of air emitting from the walls of his cell are. His head is always foggy, always confused, and the marks he uses to keep track of the days must be wrong, but he keeps doing it out of a desire to preserve some amount of sanity and control. 

“I knew you were alive,” Eggsy says, “and I never stopped searching for you.” 

Eggsy had faith in him, as boundless and as endless as the sea. That realization makes Harry want to kiss him, draw him into his arms and say all the things he should have said instead of the hurtful words he’d snapped at Eggsy before leaving. 

Clearly, Eggsy sees, and his eyes widen for an instant, something like a smirk creeping across his face before being replaced with a softer smile. “I missed you,” he now says, and every thought Harry has vanishes with the questions crowding in his mind. “I missed you so much.” He shakes his head. “Remember when you were in that coma, and I kept sneaking down to see you? I knew I couldn’t lose you then, and I can’t lose you now.” 

“Eggsy…” Harry says, but Eggsy comes up, pressing a finger against his lips. His hands are smooth, unblemished, with nothing so much as a dark pink scar from his right knuckles, and Harry stares down at them as one of them coil around his tie. 

“Shh,” Eggsy whispers, “no one needs to know.” His lips ghost over his, and Harry detects a trace of something sickly sweet, something that smells like strawberries. 

Summoning all of his strength, Harry places both hands on Eggsy’s chest and shoves him away. 

The cloaking falls, and in Eggsy’s place stands Poppy, looking disappointed. “And here I thought I was going to be a bit more successful this time,” she sighs, then looks towards the cameras with a short glare. In that second, Harry thinks about lunging for her, wrapping his hand around her throat, but knows it would be futile. There are guards waiting outside, along with countless security measures Merlin, safe in London, would have to break. “Clearly, my information was flawed.” 

“Oi,” a voice complains through the speakers embedded into the ceiling, indignant and drawling. Hesketh. That fucking bastard. “I gave you what I could on Eggsy. Not my fault.” 

 _You don’t know enough about Eggsy to break me,_ Harry thinks. It’s a bitter triumph. 

Still, he needs to be careful. Poppy will eventually perfect her concoction and the first test subject will be him, trapped in this cage without an ally. He has to play the good prisoner, confused and as helpless as he can seem, and perhaps would be able to get more privileges. 

Harry knows what leverage he has: information about Kingsman Charlie isn’t privy to and skills that Charlie also cannot match. Poppy’s come in, making references to the footage of the South Glade Mission Church. She knows what he can do, and she clearly wants him to do it for _her_. It matters not that she has mercenaries of her own, including Chester’s treacherous candidate, with fantastic weapons made out of prosthetic limbs; Poppy’s stockpiling and wants to have everything in her arsenal ready for whatever she wants to do. 

Until then, he’ll keep fighting. Poppy will never get a word out of him, not an inkling, and he’s slowly memorizing all of her tricks. She won’t kill him, not when he’s so valuable, and eventually, he’ll slip through her defenses and find his way back home. 

And when that day comes, he’ll get to see Eggsy again. 


	53. “I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I don’t notice”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More slight _Kingsman 2_ spoilers!

He’s just opened up his novel on the history of brewing when his glasses chime. Sighing, Merlin lifts up his right hand and presses one of the buttons installed just along the outer rim of the lenses. “Yes?” he asks, wondering if HQ could ever function without him for a full day. 

A familiar voice replies, "Yeah, Merlin, I just finished my mission.” 

“Congratulations, Galahad,” he says, and he means it. After V-Day, Eggsy had strings of missions that involved propping up collapsing governments and rising major criminal syndicates that were rising to take advantage of people’s losses, and it’s only now that he’s begun taking on the more conventional tasks Kingsman normally did, rescuing foreign diplomats and speeding through London in flashy cars. “I trust everything went according to plan.” 

“Indeed it did,” Eggsy replies. “Enjoying your day off?” 

Something in Eggsy’s tone implies that there’s more to his question, but Merlin answers it as normally as he can: “Yes, I am.” 

“Good. Yeah.” Eggsy then pauses, and the slight static on the end indicates he’s running his fingers along his glasses, fidgeting. “I…uh, want to stop by now.” 

“You do know that our debriefing is scheduled for tomorrow, yes?” Merlin says, surprised. What does Eggsy have to say that can’t be kept until the next day?

“I know that, _sir_ ,” Eggsy says, and the deliberate emphasis on that last word makes Merlin give a pause. This isn’t a teasing tone with a cheeky wink or a serious one with a solemn nod. It’s almost a sneer, something directed towards sneering goons or a disdainful aristocrat. “But something has recently come to my attention.” 

Merlin closes his book. “What exactly are you saying?”

“I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I don’t notice.”

He’s suddenly very, very lucky that he and Eggsy aren’t face-to-face, so he’s easily able to close his eyes, count to twenty, and steady voice. “What of it?” Merlin asks coolly. 

“What _of_ it?” Eggsy snaps, tone clearly annoyed, perhaps even a bit furious. “You want me, don’t you?”

“And you want Harry.” The words have always been in his head, but saying them out loud somehow makes it all true. He remembers Eggsy standing in front of him in the suit Harry commissioned for him, voice cracking ever so slightly when he said, “Feeling good, Merlin.” Everything in that moment confirmed what he needed to know, along with what little he’d been able to gauge from Harry, Harry who believed himself subtle in his affections. He doesn’t know what they did during their twenty-four hours, but has thought about them: the sneaky glances, the coy touches, the confessional whispers. Each and every scenario had played in his mind every time he looked at Eggsy: _no, no, he is not yours, was never yours._

“Yeah, I did,” Eggsy says, “but now, I want _you_.” 

“No, you don’t,” Merlin says, then more firmly: “You don’t. You miss him. And it’s close to the anniv - “ 

There’s a pause. “You really think…I’m just going to use you? As what, a warm body? A substitute?” 

Merlin doesn’t reply, letting the words hang in between them. 

“You really don’t know me at all, then,” Eggsy says, sounding defeated. “Fuck.” 

“Eggsy,” he begins, then there’s words scrolling in the lenses of his glasses, a message from HQ:  _Missile Incoming. Locations: shop, manor, kn_ _ights’ residences. EVACUATE IMMEDIATELY._

 _“Merlin?”_ Eggsy’s voice in his ear is a relief, and Merlin tries his best to temper the panic rising in his chest.

“Eggsy, where are you?” Merlin asks, slipping into handler mode. He needs to stay calm, be absolutely calm so they can survive this, and he’s already out the door, racing down the street with his Kingsman umbrella. “Tell me where you are now.”

“Near the shop, I was just - “

“Eggsy, you got to get out of there right now, right now; Kingsman has been compromised.” How he knows this, he doesn’t exactly know, but in his heart, he knows that this is no accident or coincidence. Who else knows about the shop, the manor, the agents’ houses? “Run as fast as you can, don’t go home, I repeat, do not go - “ 

That’s when the ground shakes, heat hits his skin, and an ear-splitting boom drowns out Eggsy’s name on his lips. 


	54. "You heard me. Take it off."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few K2 spoilers (just names and such)

he rescue mission had gone well, better than everyone had hoped, despite Whiskey’s mutterings of it “being too easy.” Merlin’s aware that it could have been a trap, that Poppy allowing Harry to escape is part of her grand plan, but the lure of having Harry safe in Statesman headquarters and away from the mad people who converted limbs into machines and had robot dogs with laser eyes named after an Elton John song is too much. 

To his and Eggsy’s vehement protests, Harry was shot with a tranquilizing dart in order to be extracted to headquarters, courtesy of Tequila. Logically, Merlin knew why, having seen the footage, both recorded and live, of Harry effortlessly demolishing whatever Poppy pointed at, even with the loss of vision in one eye. But Harry had known them, the brief burst of clarity allowing him to fight off Poppy’s brainwashing, and Merlin, deep in his heart, knew that Harry could never hurt them. 

“It’s just to be safe,” Ginger had said, and they’d wheeled Harry to Medical, Merlin and Eggsy trailing after the gurney as long as they could before having doors shut in their faces. 

Now, Eggsy’s nursing a glass of whiskey Tequila has poured for him, while Merlin’s trying not to pace in circles near the large table. Seated, Whiskey is talking to Champ, who’s reviewing the footage, preparing for a debrief, when the door opens, revealing Ginger standing there anxiously, clipboard in hand. 

“Merlin,” she says, “I think Harry needs you.” 

Merlin immediately stands up, following Ginger down the wood-paneled hallways that are so different from the ones in the manor, scattered in fragments and swallowed up by flames. “Is something wrong with him?” 

“He woke up pretty quickly,” she replies. “I’m guessing he’s gotten used to heavy doses of drugs from Poppy. However, he was groggy enough to cooperate for a time, but now…” 

“He isn’t,” Merlin finishes, recalling the times the medical staff had cursed Harry’s existence, bemoaning the Hippocratic Oath. Harry was as good as a patient as Merlin was a dancer, something that Merlin had insisted there was no cure for, no matter how often Harry insisted on practicing in their living room with Harry’s father’s old record player. 

“Yes, and I don’t think it’s a good idea to shoot him again with the dart; we don’t know what the potency will do in such a short time of administration,” Ginger says. 

“What’s he need, then?” Merlin asks. 

She pushes open a door, then another just after scanning her handprint on the panel beside the knob. “We were just trying to get Harry to take his eyepatch off as a documentation of his injuries, and…well, he’s reluctant to have it come off.” 

Merlin only nods, trying to see the figure through the blurred glass. His heart begins pounding again, a more, rapid insistent beat: _need to see him, need to see him._ “Just give me a moment alone with him,” he manages to say calmly, “and I can convince him.” 

Ginger presses the bridge of her glasses. “Medical staff, please exit the room for the time being. Allow Merlin access.” 

The people in white coats file out, and Ginger gestures towards the door with a slight jerk of her head, closing it behind him. 

When he steps into the room, Harry’s standing with his fists tightly clenched at his sides, still wearing the grey robe and white hospital-like pyjamas, hair cropped short. Raising his head, Harry turns so his right eye is facing Merlin. “So they’ve called you in here,” he says. 

“I hear you’re being stubborn,” Merlin replies dryly. 

“With good reason.” 

“It’s only to check the extent of your injury.” 

“I’m blind in one eye,” Harry says, voice stiff, but Merlin can sense the latent shame, the coiling anger and disgust. “That’s hardly news.” 

“Take it off, Harry.” He doesn’t say _just cooperate_ or _you’re being ridiculous_ or _quit acting like a child_ , as he would have only a year ago. So much has changed. “Please.” 

“No.” 

“You heard me. Take. It. Off.” 

Merlin looks at him. His hands are visibly trembling now, fists still clenched tightly, his mouth in a thin line. He’d replayed their reunion thousands of times in his head, but nothing had quite gone like this. Harry’s always been stubborn and unyielding, but this is different. He is not a knight any longer, not Galahad, not someone who had lain God knows how long underneath the sun, waiting to die. Some part of Harry had been lost that day, Merlin knows, and they might not get that person back. 

But for Harry, Merlin has to try. 

A suggestion comes: “What if I take it off?” 

Harry tilts his head, considering, then to Merlin’s surprise, nods. With surprisingly steady fingers, Merlin slowly takes the elastic binding the eyepatch and lifts it up and over Harry’s head, fingers brushing up against the stiff strands of hair along the way. Harry stands there, immobile, his eye closed, waiting like someone with his back against the wall, facing a row of gun barrels. 

“Oh, Harry,” Merlin says softly. 

Harry’s eye is milky white, with a bright red vein cutting through the middle. The dark brown iris that Harry complained about not finding good poetic adjectives for in his paperback romance novels has dimmed to a faint, almost grey trace of a circle. 

“It was a patch job,” Harry says, voice perfectly monotone, eye opening to watch him warily. “Ultimately, they wanted to save me from bleeding out, from my brain swelling, from…” _Dying_. “They succeeded in that, at least.”

And thank God for that. 

Looking Harry right in the eye, Merlin takes both of Harry’s hands in his and leans forward, lips brushing softly over the left eyelid. 

The gesture is all that they both need to say.  


	55. "come over here and make me"

“You know,” Eggsy says, “I totally expected you to be a cat person, but this is ridiculous.” 

Merlin turns from the box he’s currently rummaging through to see Eggsy holding up an old Polaroid photo, capturing one of the rare afternoons where he had been able to stretch out on the couch and read a good novel without HQ ringing him frantically if Bors so much as looked at a hand grenade. Here, he’s doing just that, surrounded by what Harry called the _legion of cats_ : Margaret, Spock, Callum, Yvonne, Leia, Jack, and Sarah the Great. 

“There’s nothing better than a cat,” Merlin says, putting an old owl lamp into the _chuck_ pile. “Harry loves dogs, but they’re too needy for my taste. Cats are independent and can occupy themselves without making you feel guilty about it.” 

Eggsy pouts, folding his arms across his chest. “Thought you liked JB, though?” 

“He’s all right,” Merlin says, though he still hasn’t quite forgiven the pug for getting teeth marks into his first edition of _Dune_. “But I much prefer your company to his.” 

“Aw,” Eggsy says, placing a hand on his heart, grinning. “You sure know how to make a bloke go weak at the knees.” 

Merlin shakes his head, but a small smile is already making itself known. “Well, I’ve used up my quota today, so you better get back to work on helping me clean out this attic instead of flipping through old photo albums.” 

“But who can resist looking at photos of you with hair? Roxy would give me her leather jacket for - _oh_.” 

Merlin looks up, only to be confronted with yet another photograph: this time, with him sitting astride on the Challenger he’d saved up for months to buy. His dark hair had already begun to thin, but that’s all covered up by a helmet, complete with a white racing stripe, and dark sunglasses are perched on his nose. His hands, encased in leather gloves, are gripping the handlebars. He remembers Harry taking that picture, mock-swooning and tossing his hair that always looked wind-tousled until he discovered pomade and flat irons.  

“Holy shit, Merlin,” Eggsy murmurs, grinning, “you were the bad guy mums tell their kids to stay away from.” 

“Not really,” Merlin says dryly, “I always got good grades. Worse thing I ever did was smoke cigs on the school grounds.” 

“Shut _up_ ,” Eggsy replies. “You definitely were a bad boys. Nice guys don’t go looking like they can break you in half…and with that jacket. Forget Roxy’s, yours looks _aces_.” His gaze then drifts to the box Merlin’s standing over, and his hands, faster than Merlin can blink, snatch that exact jacket from an assortment of scarves and gloves. “Oh, yeah. Go on, then, put it on now.” 

Merlin raises his eyebrows, knowing exactly what Eggsy is thinking. “Come over here and make me.” 

Smirking, Eggsy starts forward, jacket in hand, hips swaying. “Gladly. What do I have to do, _sir_?” 

Just before Eggsy’s mouth can make contact with his, Merlin places one hand on his chest and whispers in his ear, “After _you_ help me clean the attic.” 


	56. “If you keep looking at me like that we won’t make it to a bed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few (just a few) minor K2 spoilers!

“So, when is this party going to start?” Eggsy mutters, pretending to casually look around the bar. Some girl in the corner winks at him, giggling, but he only gives her a polite nod of acknowledgement before turning back to the bartender.

“’Round two o’clock,” Whiskey says, leaning over with the pretense of polishing the counter. “Intel says they’re going to be striding in and talking to that man in the corner over there, the one in the red plaid with those two other guys.”

“Seems to me that fixing rodeos is a bigger deal than back in Britain,” Harry comments. He’s ordered a pint of Guinness and a tray of chips - oh, sorry, _fries -_ for himself and Eggsy to share, claiming that drinking a Kentucky martini as tantamount to selling one’s soul directly to Satan. 

“For one, we don’t have rodeos,” Eggsy points out. 

“And that’s why Tequila keeps asking you to one,” Whiskey replies. “Thinks you two need some culture.” 

“More than chicken-fried steak and deep-fried peaches?” Harry retorts, and Eggsy can’t help smiling, despite secretly admitting that those peaches had been pretty good. He’d eaten at least two, along with some funnel cakes that Roxy shared with him during their last mission at the county fair. Statesman loved to invite them over, even when the extra manpower wasn’t needed, and when Eggsy had a free moment, he always took them up on the offer. 

Kingsman still needs rebuilding, but their American “cousins,” as Merlin calls them, are happy to help. Ginger herself came down to help Merlin set up the network, and Eggsy had to quietly excuse himself once they started making eyes at each other while talking about software and connectivity. But really, he’s happy for them, happy that Kingsman’s getting back on its feet, happy for Harry for doing the same.

“Oi, you two, you’re doing it again,” Whiskey says, looking at them with a raised eyebrow, and flushing, Eggsy turns away from Harry, trying to subdue his full-blown grin. “And we got our man walking in now.” 

The bloke is striding in, wearing a white leather jacket and a cowboy hat, and Eggsy resists the urge to roll his eyes at the way his fingers stick in his belt loops. Not only has this guy been fixing rodeos, he’s also using them as a front to deal in weapons, selling them to contractors in foreign countries.

He taps the other man’s shoulder, and they nod, picking up one of the cues at the pool table. Two other men there nod as well, and the bug Whiskey’s slapped on them while they were chatting at the bar picks up their conversation.

“…Definitely recording some major blackmail,” Eggsy mutters, taking a sip. 

Suddenly, the man in the red plaid takes a gun out of his belt and points it at the white leather jacket man. “That wasn’t the deal!” he shouts.

“Oh, shit,” Harry mutters beside them. 

Whiskey raises his voice: “Sir, put that away now.”

“Shut up!” the man shouts, pointing it at him. “You don’t fucking get to tell me what to do!” 

“Well, I am one of the owners, so…” 

The girl in the corner stiffens, hand slowly reaching for her phone in her back pocket, and the man sees, spinning around and finger landing on the trigger when Eggsy leaps to his feet, and with a flick of his wrist, smashes his glass against the man’s head.

He drops like a stone, and after that, it’s chaos.

Patrons run or pull out guns of their own - _honestly_ \- as he and Harry and Whiskey pursue the members of the rodeo-fixing ring. Eggsy fires amnesia darts, sending the people with weapons to the ground, and drags them behind the bar because they do _not_ need more bullets flying than usual. Stepping into the fight, not worrying about the people who are dialing 911 because Ginger’s already working on the other end to make sure no one arrives, Eggsy opens his umbrella.

Beside him, Whiskey twirls his lasso and lets it fly, the loop tightening around a waist and tugging, sending the bloke crashing into the bar, and Harry’s swiftly stepping around the leather jacket man who’s pulled out a handgun, trying to shoot him. Eggsy tenses, ready to jump in, but Harry, within seconds, easily snatches the bloke from behind, twisting his arm and making him drop the gun.

“Do you know who I am? ‘Cause I’m going to fucking _kill_ you,” the man vows, despite his loss of his weapon.

“Been there, done that,” Harry says, and allows the dart in his watch to do the job. 

With an anticlimactic thump, the man goes down, and Eggsy whistles, long and slow.

“Holy shit,” Eggsy says, “that was as sexy as hell.”

“No respect for the lasso trick,” Whiskey mutters underneath his breath, but Eggsy ignores him in favor of stepping towards Harry and kissing him, fingers lingering on the elastic of Harry’s eye patch. Yeah, that’s right; Harry’s alive, Harry’s back from the dead, and Harry still fights like he did on that day in the pub, fast and brutal and graceful.

“God, I love you,” Eggsy mutters, kissing him again, hands winding into Harry’s hair. His heart feels like it’s about to burst any second. “All quick and tough and fucking amazing. I love you, I love you, I fucking _love_ you.” 

“If you keep looking at me like that, we won’t make it to a bed,” Harry says when they pull away. His lips are slightly parted, pupil widened, and Eggsy can’t imagine he looks in better shape himself. 

“Good enough for me,” Eggsy replies, then pulls Harry in by the lapels of his jacket so their hips knock together.  

There’s a deliberate cough behind them. “Gentlemen,” Whiskey says, “as much as I understand your mutual…desire to get reacquainted, we do need to get back and debrief with Ginger.”

Eggsy closes his eyes, stretching out _fuccccckkkkkk_ as long as he can, and smiles apologetically at Harry. “Rain check, then?” 

Harry smiles back. “Rain check. And I do believe we can have some time to make proper martinis.” 


	57. "Teach me how to play?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few little K2 spoilers ahead! (plus...my first Tequila/Eggsy fic)

One thing about the Statesman HQ that tops Kingsman’s, as much as he misses it, is the fucking game room. From wall to wall, there’s a foosball table, a rack full of board games, a dart board in the corner, a vintage Pac-Man machine, and a Star Wars-themed pinball machine, where Ginger holds the highest score. It’s a nice place to come and relax a little, something that’s hard to do these days. 

But one of the more prominent features is in the middle, with a light dangling from the ceiling above: a pool table, complete with green felt and little dials embedded in the wood that turn numbers to keep track of the score. Right now, Whiskey’s assessing, hand on his chin, with Tequila leaning against his pool cue. 

“Hey, boys,” Eggsy says, strolling towards them. “Teach me how to play?” 

“You’re kidding me,” Tequila says, raising his eyebrows. “You’ve never played a game of pool in your life?” 

Eggsy rolls his eyes, sticking his hands in his trouser pockets. “It’s the same in every country, isn’t it? In Britain, I get ‘dragged,’” he even whips out the air quotes, “for not knowing about loo snorkels and utensils and tie knots, and here, about Kentucky martinis and rodeos and bar games.” 

Tequila raises his hands in mock surrender. “Whoa, there, partner, just surprised. But it’s not too bad to learn.” He nods towards Whiskey. “You can watch us for a bit.”

Whiskey finally takes his shot, neatly sending a striped orange-and-white ball into one of the holes, and then curses when the white ball follows in after it. Winking at Eggsy, Tequila walks around and sits astride on the table, pool cue positioned horizontally behind his back. 

“You’re showing off,” Whiskey comments. 

“Am not,” Tequila replies, then expertly hits the white ball, sending it clicking against a red one, which cleanly rolls into one of the holes. Eggsy watches them both play for a while, hanging a bit around the table and trying not to notice how Tequila’s jeans stretch just a bit too tightly over his arse or how Tequila seems to be winking enough to put Bond to shame. He won’t lie and say Tequila isn’t attractive, but he’s definitely different from any of the other guys he knows, with the jaunty cowboy hat, the steel-toed cowboy boots, and the scuffed-up jean jacket. 

Eggsy knows Tequila’s friendly, flirting with anything that moves, and that he probably doesn’t regard Eggsy as someone permanent. But that doesn’t really matter to him, not any more. What he wanted has been lost underneath the white-hot Kentucky sun and to the destructive firepower of long-range missiles, and Eggsy feels the weight of the Kingsman medal against his heart. He’d pried it carefully from the doomsday compartment, holding it in his hand before following Merlin out the door.

Everyone at Statesman knew what had been lost at Kingsman, but Tequila, while sympathetic, was inclined to take action instead of discussing it, and Eggsy gratefully followed him into the field. He craved focused decisiveness, battlefield adrenaline, doing _something_ that would keep the memories at bay, and Tequila seemed to understand that he craved a distraction. He could always make Eggsy laugh, too, something he needed a lot lately. 

They’d opened up a bottle of bourbon together just three days ago, passing it between them, Tequila’s hand resting steadily on Eggsy’s knee, keeping it there until the last dregs had run out. 

“Hey, Eggsy,” Tequila now says, and Eggsy looks at him, at the slight smile curving at the end of his lips. “Want to take the next shot?”

Eggsy looks at Whiskey, who shrugs and gestures for him to go. He takes the cue Tequila offers him, leaning over the table and positioning the stick between his fingers like he’s seen the two other men do it. 

He doesn’t know if the cue jolts or his hit isn’t focused enough or the angle is wrong, but the white ball leaps in place, rolling sadly for a few centimeters before coming to a stop, missing the dark blue ball right in front of it. 

“Aw,” Tequila says, “don’t worry, that didn’t count.” 

“Yes, it did,” Whiskey retorts. 

“Nah, second chance,” Tequila scoffs, then moves the white ball back into position. “Now, Eggsy, here’s a neat trick. May I?” He holds out his hand, and Eggsy passes the cue to him, watching as Tequila highlights the path between the two balls with it, the wooden stick acting as a guideline. “Helps if you know trig, I hear, but all it takes is practice and focus.” 

“But trig is useful,” Whiskey points out. 

“No one wants to stand here and watch you pull out a ruler,” Tequila says, rolling his eyes, with a quick, commiserating smile in Eggsy’s direction. “Bad enough that Ginger does it.” 

“Didn’t she beat you, Champ, and me last month?”

Tequila waves his hand. “Well, we don’t have time for that. This here is a bit of a simpler way.” He hands the cue back to Eggsy, fingers lightly brushing Eggsy’s, lingering just long enough on his knuckles. “Having a steady hand is just as important. You shook a little, grip’s a bit unsteady, but we can fix that.”

“How so?” Eggsy asks, knowing what where this is going, and fuck, why not? Life is short, and Tequila seems sweet enough.   

“Private lessons,” Tequila says, voice pitched low. “Midnight. Here. You in?” 

Eggsy looks at him, remembering how the callouses felt against his skin, enough to make a difference but similar enough to pretend. He knows by now that Tequila won’t ask questions, won’t do anything except what he needs, won’t ask him to take control, something he’s well aware of having lost. And he wants that: surrender, fuck, forget. 

Eggsy nods. “I’m in,” he says. 


	58. "I almost lost you."

The shrill shriek of the alarm pierces his eardrums, and Eggsy curses. The smoke’s clearing out now, with the burner turned off, but Eggsy’s still coughing into his fist, the remnants of it still sticking in his lungs and nostrils, as he looks around for the source. He hears pounding footsteps on the stairs, JB barking frantically, and shouts a reassurance before turning his gaze towards the ceiling, searching.

When his eyes zoom in on the round, white box, he snatches the closest thing that can be used as a stool—sorry, Harry’s newly-polished antique chairs—and hauls himself up, jabbing his finger on the OFF button four times.

To his relief, it shuts up—the one at his old flat didn’t stop until its batteries had been yanked out—and his glasses sitting on the counter chime. It’s Merlin, likely, since the smoke alarm is connected to Harry’s security system, which sends a signal to Kingsman if anything is tripped. Slipping on his glasses, Eggsy quickly reassures one of Merlin’s minions that they’re all right, that it was a harmless kitchen fire, and turns to Harry.

 “I almost lost you,” Harry breathes. “It’s all right, darling, it’s over now.”

Eggsy clears his throat, hopping down from the chair, and Harry turns, Mr. Pickle cradled in his arms, then coos a last reassurance before setting him down back on the mantle, ruffling the top of his head before coming into the kitchen.

Rolling his head, Eggsy drawls, “Nice to know that if the house was engulfed in flames, your priority would be a dog who is _already dead_ instead of your boyfriend of two years.” And yeah, it would have been flattering—and more _sensible_ —if Harry had ran towards Eggsy—or at least to JB, the actual _living_ dog in the house. Eggsy crosses his arms, and that’s a signal for Harry to come closer and put a steadying hand on his shoulder, rubbing it slowly.

Harry gives him his _be sensible_ look, with echoes of indignation. “Mr. Pickle is helpless.”

“And so is JB!” Eggsy points to the pug, who’s sniffing the air, searching for something edible that came out of this whole mess.

“JB is a smart dog,” Harry says, “and we have a dog door that leads to the back.”

“Harry,” Eggsy retorts, “the real question is…what about me? Knight rushing to save someone in distress—and you don’t deliver? That’s _cold_.”  

“Darling,” Harry says, with a patient look, “I know you can save yourself.” 

“What if I couldn’t?” Eggsy retorts, the corner of his mouth trembling. “What if the ceiling collapsed on me? Or the smoke got to me? Or if JB ran into me and sent me tumbling down that fucking staircase and I broke a leg?” 

“Somehow, I don’t think any of those scenarios would stop you, but,” Harry amends, “of course, I’d save you. I’d do whatever it took.”

The utter seriousness Harry projects into that statement has Eggsy giving up on the game. He gazes at the man who starts off each morning with a kiss to Eggsy’s forehead, who runs his fingers through Eggsy’s hair when he nods off during the commute between the manor and the shop, who always looks at Eggsy as if he’s last survivor of an obliterated planet. Harry will always be the man he loves, and Eggsy, with a start, realizes just that. Harry’s it for him. There’s no else, ever, and maybe, just maybe, they’ll make it official.

But for now, Eggsy steps forward and folds his arms around Harry, toes slightly rising to give himself a bit of a boost.

“Same goes for me, too,” Eggsy declares, then kisses him. “No matter what.”


	59. stroking hair, Brighton

They’re in Brighton, bare feet walking along the shoreline, hands loosely clasped. Only this time, they’re not posing as tourists in order to catch some madman threatening to destroy the sleepy seaside town or uncovering a conspiracy behind the peaceful little shops. They’re just Harry Hart and Eggsy Unwin—Hart-Unwin, now—taking a well-deserved break for the weekend.

Harry, for once, isn’t in his bespoke suit, but bundled in a navy blue overcoat that Eggsy had gotten him for his birthday last week. He’s looking somewhat distantly at the glittering waves, and Eggsy watches with him, the orange and pink sky fading slowly away as the sun sets. 

The wind tugs at their hair playfully, and Eggsy shivers slightly, wishing he’d thought to grab the windbreaker with the hood. Sensing the motion, Harry turns, pulling Eggsy closer to his side and winding an arm around his waist. “Shall we get back?”

“Nah,” Eggsy says, “kind of wanted to walk a bit further. I can handle it, so long as you don’t want to take a swim or something.” 

“Absolutely not,” Harry replies. “We didn’t bring our swimwear with us.” 

“We can always skinny dip,” Eggsy jokes, throwing in a wink for good measure.

“Too bloody cold.” Harry shakes his head, unable to hide a smile. “Besides, I’d rather not parade my naked arse for the whole world to see.”

“Right, that’s just for us,” Eggsy adds, and Harry laughs, shaking his head again. They begin to walk again, leisurely kicking up the water and squishing the wet sand between their toes. To be honest, Eggsy’s feet are freezing, and he’ll need to wash off the sand before he pulls his shoes back on, but Harry doesn’t seem to mind. Even years and years after his year in a cell, Harry prefers the outdoors more than he used to, according to Merlin, and Eggsy figures he also prefers the discomfort of cold and heat to the constant regulated temperature of twenty-five degrees Celcius. He still remembers stepping into that cell with the lights on for twenty-four hours and butterflies decorating the walls, breathing in the stale oxygen that Harry had breathed without so much as an open window or a step outside. 

But when Harry pulls Eggsy a bit closer, Eggsy forces himself to stop thinking about that. Harry’s here, Harry’s better, Harry’s a Kingsman again—and his husband. They’d had a small ceremony, with a few Kingsman, Statesman, and civilian guests, and spent a few days in Brighton before having to return to stop half of London from being blown off the face of the earth. 

“Penny for your thoughts?” Harry asks. 

“Just about you,” Eggsy says, leaning up to kiss him. His free hand comes up, running through Harry’s hair, catching a bit in the snarls. 

“Look at it,” Eggsy murmurs, combing gently, “‘s all tangled.”

Harry leans into his touch, closing his eye as Eggsy’s fingers move through Harry’s curls, tangled and soft. There’s more grey in them than when Eggsy saw him leaning against the wall of Holborn Police Station, but Eggsy doesn’t care. He’s brushed and washed these curls when Harry was too injured to do it himself, smoothed them back for important meetings with Champ and the other heads of the international Kingsman branches, and tugged these curls in bed in their new home. 

Even after the tangles are all removed, Eggsy keeps stroking Harry’s hair, occasionally running a nail against Harry’s scalp, delighting in the shivers that have nothing to do with the wind. But mostly, he runs his fingers through the messy strands, stopping to massage the back of Harry’s neck with a stray thumb. 

When he finally pulls away, Harry smiles softly. “Thank you, Eggsy,” he says, then bends down to give Eggsy a kiss. His mouth tastes like the hot chocolate they’d purchased by the pier, warm and sweet. Harry’s large, strong hands cup the back of Eggsy’s head and neck, and Eggsy closes his eyes when one runs through his own hair, tucking stray bits behind his ears. 

“Love you,” Eggsy sighs. 

“Love you, too,” Harry replies, then kisses him again. “Shall we go back to town? I know you want to enjoy the festival a bit more.” 

“‘Course,” Eggsy says, grinning. “let’s see if I can convince you to ride the carousel.”


	60. not again, never again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> brief tw: discussion of suicide/suicidal thoughts
> 
> Also, slight Kingsman 2 spoilers (in terms of new characters)

“What in hell were you thinking?” 

Eggsy turns, nearly spilling the whiskey he’d nicked, but doesn’t hide it behind his back or behind one off the barrels. Tequila’s standing in the doorway, eyes assessing the bandages peeking out from underneath his polo and jacket, the one with the gold stripe down the arm that hadn’t been swallowed up in the flames from Harry’s house. 

“What was I thinking?” Eggsy retorts, tongue steady, despite half the bottle in him. “That’s gratitude for you. Saved your fucking arse from Charlie, didn’t I?”

Tequila takes a deep breath, clenching his fists at his sides tightly before releasing them. “Look. I got to be straight with you.” 

Normally, Eggsy would say something in anticipation for one of Tequila’s thinly veiled innuendos or cocky one-liners, but this time, he finds that he cannot make his lips move. Tequila’s lips are in a tightly-pressed frown, his eyes steady and serious, no trace of laughter in his face. 

“I’ve seen it happen. I’ve felt it myself, especially after V-Day. And…well, Merlin told me a few things. Whiskey, too.” 

“You’re asking me if I’m doing this on purpose, aren’t you?” Eggsy’s temper flares. “Fuck you. No! I have a family—” 

“That doesn’t always stop people,” Tequila interrupts. 

“Well, it fucking stops  _me_ ,” Eggsy retorts, then immediately snaps his mouth shut, but it’s too late, judging by the expression on Tequila’s face, a flicker of confirmation and guilt, passing quicker than a lighting strike. His chest clenches, stomach dropping because  _fuck_.  _Fuck_. No one knows about it, no one’s hinted anything, no one’s ever confronted him, and maybe someone should have fucking done this earlier, but Eggsy had expected Roxy or Merlin or even his mum to pull it out of him through skilled interrogation or when he just couldn’t take it anymore—not some fucking former rodeo clown turned cowboy secret agent. 

When Tequila speaks, his voice is low: “I’m glad.”

“Piss off.” Eggsy says, turning away. He doesn’t want the pity-soft eyes, the careful treads, the stumbling over words that were thought to potentially shatter his heart. “You and Merlin and Whiskey…gossiping like we’re in fucking secondary again.”

“There was no  _gossip_ ,” Tequila retorts. “We’re just—”

“Concerned?” Eggsy fires back. “Who else knows? Ginger? Champ? That bird who served me the fucking sorry excuse of a martini?” 

“I  _never_ —” Tequila quickly changes tactics, holding out his palms, like trying to calm a spooked horse. “Look. What I know is from hearsay and what I’ve seen. We all don’t want to talk about certain things. God knows what we’ve all been through. But…when we don’t, sometimes…”

“No,” Eggsy says firmly. “I don’t want to die.”

“But you dove in front of me,” Tequila says, looking at him, then swiveling towards the bandages again. “Right in right of the bullet.” 

“Yeah, I did.” 

“Well, thank you. Much obliged and all, but I didn’t want you hurt. Especially since you were in your civilian clothes and not that fancy bulletproof suit.” 

“Is it so bad to want to save your life?” Eggsy snaps, then mentally curses at the slight wobble in his voice. His feet inch towards the door, needing to get the fuck out of there before it’s too late. “Should I have just let you get shot?” 

“The vest is bulletproof.” 

“Yeah, but your stupid cowboy hat isn’t.” 

Tequila’s eyes widen, putting two and two together, and he lowers his hands. “…Oh.” 

Eggsy turns away, but allows Tequila to step closer, close enough for them to touch, and the words spill out all at once: “It’s…it’s just fucking hard. Every day, I think about what happened here and that I couldn’t…I couldn’t protect him. I don’t want anything like that to happen again.” 

“Oh, Jesus,” Tequila says softly, but he doesn’t say it like anyone else would, like  _not this again_ or  _what am I supposed to do with this bloke?_  It’s an exhale of realization, of sympathy, of understanding. “Eggsy.” 

And Eggsy’s face has turned, burying into Tequila’s shoulder, breathing in the scent of leather and gunpowder and the dust that’s all over Kentucky. Tequila’s arms immediately go around his shoulders, loose enough so that Eggsy can pull away. 

But Eggsy doesn’t. Afterwards, he can’t really remember if he said more or if Tequila said anything. He just remembers that embrace, the fingers running through his hair, soothing and slow, grounding him. He remembers leaning into the touch, Tequila’s calloused hands never faltering. He remembers the slow circles on the back of his head, tracing tenderly in a way that no one had ever had done. 

And the sinking, the surrender. It wasn’t pulling, wasn’t drowning, wasn’t like he’d thought. It was drifting, being tugged gently like waves finding their way back to shore. What he’d find there, he isn’t so sure about, but he can find something, he’s sure. 

But for now, he allows Tequila to run his fingers through his hair, to hold him, and that’s all that he really needs now.  


	61. a graphic novelist and a smitten fan

“You’re saying that you skived off of work because you want to see some man who writes your favorite comic book series?” 

“Mr. Unwin is a graphic novelist,” Harry says firmly, shifting in order to get a better picture of the length of the line. “The snobbery towards visual works of art is—”

“Yes, yes, we all know about your infatuation for one of Britain’s youngest authors,” Merlin sighs into the phone. “Unfortunately, we can’t officially give you a weekend off to jaunt over to a con and have him sign one of your dilapidated copies of  _West Borough Wall-Banger_.”

“That is the name of the first volume, not the whole series,” Harry retorts, stepping forward a few centimeters. “And I’ve already planned ahead. I called in this morning. It’s terrible to have the flu this time of year.”

“ _Harry_.”

“Is Chester terribly disappointed?” 

“He is.”

“And you’ve covered for me?” 

Merlin sighs again. “You owe me, Harry. Big time. Starting with—”

“Oh, it seems that I’m reaching the beginning of the line,” Harry says, then hangs up. 

If he peeks behind an eager young woman with sunglasses and a hood, he can see some sort of jacket crowded with gold plaques, with a white cap pulled over his face. Trying not to fidget, Harry watches him sign the inside front cover— _The Spy Who Shagged Me,_  a bonus novella that Harry’s kept carefully in his bookcase and wrapped in the plastic covering—and speaking to her, voice unheard over the constant chatter of the convention around them. The young woman’s grinning, hand just shy of resting on his arm, and Harry can hear Unwin saying, “It was honor to meet you, m’lady.” 

“My knight,” she says, laughing, with an accent that Harry cannot quite place. “Would you name a character after me?”

“Perhaps there will be a dashing rescue of a princess,” he replies, and when she leans over, blonde hair falling over her face, Harry can hear her murmur, then Unwin’s startled, choked laugh. 

“All right, ma’am, that’s enough,” one of the men standing near the end of the table says, and the young woman goes cheerfully enough, swaying her hips. “Next!” 

And Harry finds out that he cannot move. 

He’s seen Gary Unwin on the back cover of his works, chin raised and expression carefully serious. His biography only says that he is twenty-three years old, lives in London with his mother and sister and pug, and works a day job in addition to writing. He has a Twitter, but it only posts updates about his new graphic novel, holiday and birthday wishes, and pleas to donate to this charity or this cause—nothing overly personal. Gary Unwin likes a quiet life, so every public appearance is limited, even with the new movie set to come out next fall. 

But nothing quite prepared him for this. Unwin’s eyes are a lovely shade of green, his hair is mussed as if he’d rolled out of bed, and every thought that comes after it makes Harry feel older and older, more and more tongue-tied. 

“Don’t be shy,” Unwin finally says, winking. “Tell me what you got.” 

Harry manages to move forward, placing his copy on the table. “Thank you for coming,” he manages. “I…” And he cannot say anything after that—he, a fucking lawyer who strides in front of a crowded courtroom and coaches dozens and dozens of people what to say during a trial—can do nothing but stutter like a schoolboy and turn a slow, steady shade of red. 

But Unwin is kind, turning the book so he can study the front cover of his hero and his mentor charging in to save the day. “I remember this one. One of my favorites.” 

“Mine as well,” Harry says, trying to recover his dignity. He won’t be seen as another swooning fan who couldn’t keep their head on. “This was the first one I’ve read, and I was…I couldn’t put it down, so I went back and read every single one.“

Unwin raises his eyebrows. “No offense, bruv, but I…you don’t seem the type.”

“No, I don’t,” Harry says, mentally reviewing his appearance, looking like an average middle-aged man who worked in an office. “I’m assuming you’re expecting me to spout off about the decline of the written word and complexity of literature and about how proper stories cannot be told using pictures, as well as how this issue is more critical than ever due to millennials regressing into using emojis and text speak to convey their narcissistic thoughts on social media.”

Unwin’s grin grows wider. “Exactly, yeah.” 

“Well, I won’t,” Harry says. “I enjoy your work. The complexities of social class in Britain and traditional masculinity suit it well.” He lowers his voice. “And the…romantic relationship between the two main characters.” 

“You read it like that?” 

“Yes,” Harry says carefully. Some authors don’t like such interpretations, but they could hardly not think that readers would not jump to that line of thought with scenes of the male protagonist steadily ignoring the few women around him, grinning softly at his older mentor, going into a year long mourning period when said mentor died, and well, enough evidence to write a thesis on. 

Unwin grins, and Harry sees  _something_ specifically aimed at him, playful and cheeky. “I wrote it that way, too.” 

“Sir,” one of the guards say, “I’m sorry, but we got to keep the line going.” 

“Yeah, all right,” Gary says, then scrawls his signature in the inside front cover. “Who do I make this out to?”

“Harry,” Harry says, quickly, “Harry Hart.” 

“Well, Harry, Harry Hart, hope to see you around.” Unwin looks up, giving Harry a wink. “And if you do, call me Eggsy.” 


	62. "I have no fucking clue what you've been saying," or a cultural exchange

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More tiny spoilers from K2!

“God, I’m fucking knackered,” Eggsy groans. His right leg’s falling asleep on him, but he doesn’t want to shift in his chair. The Statesman’s medical team said that luckily for him, his ribs hadn’t been smashed to bits and his concussion wasn’t too serious. Lucky him, yeah, but if it weren’t for the meeting, he’d be having a lie-down right now. “Who the fuck knew Charlie was going to have a fucking mechanical arm? Fucking mission went pear-shaped.”

“Aye,” Merlin sighs. “Glaikit bastard. Should have amnesia darted him when he left, put him on surveillance—”

“We couldn’t have, though,” Eggsy points out, “not with Chester around. And are you saying you don’t watch the candidates who—” he cuts himself off, remembering that the other Statesman agents are also in the room, looking at them curiously. Kingsman may be no more, but he’s still got to act like it’ll come back. “…who are like that?” 

Merlin shakes his head. “No. And perhaps we need to look into that.” 

“Mental,” Eggsy groans, closing his eyes. He might not have had anything to do with the administrative side of Kingsman, but that doesn’t mean that not keeping an eye on the candidates who failed the fucking loyalty test is a sort of shite idea “Absolutely fucking mental.” 

There’s a loud cough from the seat on Eggsy’s left. “Yeah, guys, I have no fucking clue what you’ve been saying,” Tequila drawls, boots on the table.

Eggsy sees Ginger gives him a reproving look, much like Merlin’s, and with a wink, Tequila slides his feet onto the floor, catching Eggsy’s eye in order to shoot a grin his way.  

“We know Charlie Hesketh from before,” Merlin says. “He was one of our recruits—”

“No, no, not that, I gathered that,” Tequila says, waving his hand. “But all those…slang words.” 

“It’s just how we talk from across the pond,” Eggsy says, affecting an accent so posh that if he could split himself in two and punch himself in the face, he would. 

“Yeah, like how a boot is the trunk of a car,” Tequila says thoughtfully, “and bonnet’s the hood. And chips over there are crisps, for some reason.” He then switches from his Southern drawl to another posh accent, though definitely more heinous than Eggsy’s: “Poppy is…how do you say, off her trolley? Dear me, what a wretched state to be in, poor dear.” 

Eggsy laughs, the motion making his ribs hurt, but it feels good to know that what happened back home hadn’t knocked everything completely out of him. Tequila smiles, obviously pleased, and is just opening his mouth when Ginger says, rather dryly, “Yes, well, we believe she’s not as…sane as she once was. She still owns an empire of archetypal period diners, beers, all-American cookware, and a few recipe books, even had a network show before…everything.” 

“And now, she’s got henchmen, robot dogs, and explosive weapons,” Whiskey comments. “Bit of a step backwards, but she’s dangerous. From what we’ve got on her so far, especially since she’s tied to the destruction of your agency…”

“So, what’s the drilly, then?” Eggsy says, mangling his own lovely accent to the point where it’ll be mocked on sketch comedy shows on late night television. “Can’t be all about making p’s, that’s just too cliche.” 

“Now,  _I_ don’t even know what that means,” Merlin says. 

“Gotta listen to more rap,” Eggsy says, laying back in his chair. “Come on, guv.” 

“Right,” Merlin says, in an _I’m this close to dumping you in the middle of the Sahara with a toothbrush and an empty water bottle_  voice, “what we’ve discovered is that she’s part of an organization, the Golden Circle. It looks like some of the members have been involved in other secret intelligence agencies. Including her. Unfortunately, I can’t access the database, but there…was an incident before you came, Eggsy.”

“And I’m betting she switched on everyone, long story short,” Eggsy says. “Screams Valentine again: bright as a button, though a bit crackers.”

“She’s been participating in some major doohickey,” Tequila adds, all his teeth showing. The Southern accent is back, fully cranked up, and Eggsy’s torn between laughing and crossing his legs. “Got her feathers ruffled on V-Day, too.” 

“…Yes,” Ginger says, clearly trying to keep the conversation on track. Whiskey, beside her, looks as if he’s about ready to roll his eyes. “And she’s recruited from your organization, so to speak. What can you tell us about this Charlie Hesketh?” 

“He was our former leader’s proposal,” Merlin says. “He didn’t make the cut, as you can see, so he allied himself with Valentine. Eggsy found him in Valentine’s private bunker, and he punched him with the signet ring—”

“Not fun,” Tequila comments, giving Eggsy a mock hurtful look. Eggsy shrugs. Hey, not his fault that he wasn’t allowing Merlin’s head to be bashed against whiskey barrels. 

“Which likely disabled his chip or caused it to malfunction in a non-lethal  way,” Merlin finishes. 

“Is there a chance we can lure him back to our side?” Ginger asks, looking as if she already knows the answer. 

“No,” Eggsy says, “real wanker, won’t stop until he gets revenge. Petty as shit, too, for not getting a seat at the table. And if I know him, he’s not gonna listen to Poppy now that he’s seen me alive.”

“Hopefully, he’ll get too big for his britches,” Tequila says, still in his overly-affected accent. “’Til he ain’t got the good sense God gave a rock, and that’s when we can hit him.”  

“A real knob, too,” Eggsy says, then drops into a full on BBC announcer voice, ignoring Merlin’s fixed glare on him. “And good plan. He might talk, might even lose his plot, not bat on a full wicket.” 

“'Til he can’t tell his ass from a hole in the ground.” 

“Yeah, and he’s a plonker,” Eggsy adds, switching to his original accent, stretching out the vowels purposefully, “face like a cat’s arse. Whining everywhere.” 

“And you’d want to say, _And people in hell want ice water. Quit complaining._ ” 

“Exactly,” Eggsy says, then turns to Merlin. “That’s part of the plan. Got it, gaffer?” 

“No,” Merlin says, gaze flickering towards the liquor cabinet. “Are you done, Agent Galahad?” 

“Yes, sir, Merlin, sir,” Eggsy says, saluting him. 

“That goes for you, too,” Ginger adds, staring hard at Tequila. 

“Yes, ma’am, Ginger, ma’am,” Tequila obediently replies, dipping his hat at her. “I just want to ask Agent Galahad something before we continue on the basis of international diplomacy and communication.” 

“If I allow you to, can this meeting commence?” Ginger asks, tapping her clipboard meaningfully. 

“Yes, ma’am,” Tequila says, then turns to Eggsy. “How would you answer to  _let’s go out get a drink after this_?”

Eggsy reclines in his seat, steeples his fingers, and opens his mouth: “You know, the last time I’ve been asked this was in secondary, maybe, down town with the lads, and we were realizin’ we was hank marvin’, so Ryan, absolute ledge, was all  _let’s go to Maccers, cuz_ , and while we was there, this bird came up and we were all chatting her up, so she turns to me and asks me to have a cheeky Nandos on her, and I say,  _yeah, love._ So that’s my answer,  _yeah, love,_  right there. As long as you don’t try to shove a fucking Kentucky martini down my throat.” 

Tequila’s face is bright red, shoulders shaking, and lips stretched in a wide grin, but he manages to answer, “Excellent,” with another wink. 

“Top,” Eggsy says, then turns back to the table, relishing the baffled expressions all around. “Let’s smash it.” 


	63. an obligatory "shit, I had a one night stand with my professor" ficlet

“And…cheers to the new term!” 

Eggsy grins at his mates. Jamal and Ryan didn’t end up following him to uni, but they’d managed to keep in touch, cheering Eggsy on and even postponing their nights out in order for Eggsy to buckle down and ace his exams without so much as as a groan. In return, Eggsy paid for their drinks—thanks to work study, his shifts at the tutoring center, and the full gymnastics and academic scholarship, he had a little extra for his own—and brought along Roxy, who could kick their arses at Cards Against Humanity and drink them under the table.

Now, Roxy’s tapping her glass against his. “To our last term!” she cheers, relief slumping her shoulders, though Eggsy knows she’s got internships and fucking _law school_  lined up after this. He himself hopes to land something that pays decently, especially if he doesn’t get any aid to go to a proper graduate program, and he really, really needs it. While Roxy had been drawn to throwing hardened criminals in the slammer, he’d been drawn to the foster system, already planning his thesis on the economic and social barriers that involved academically-correct words for  _officials with silver spoons stuck up their arses._

But to even get there, he needed good grades—which should work out—and exam scores and letters of recommendation. He’d lined up his options with two other professors, scrapping even the idea of asking Dr. King for one and entertaining the idea for Dr. Hart. He was going to be in two of his classes this semester, and Dr. Hart seemed strict but fair and sympathetic to what Charlie—who seemed to think he was going to land a position in the House of Lords easily enough—disdainfully called  _the downtrodden_. “Supports every bleeding heart cause out there,” Charlie had sneered when he’d spotted Eggsy looking through options for his next term. “Sob stories about single mothers from the estates and drunken deadbeat dads and chavs snorting every drug they can lay their hands on…yeah, he eats them up.” 

So, yeah, maybe Dr. Hart would be less of a snob than his other professors, but Eggsy hopes he can prove his worth instead of being another statistic for someone to sigh over. But now, he laughs with his mates, trading stories and knocking back a few pints, filling up with chips so he doesn’t get too sloshed, since he’s got classes in a few days. 

“…And I haven’t fucked in, like, five months,” Jamal’s groaning. “Fucking job at the fire station, love it and all, but it’s been a fucking dry spell.” 

“Not a dry spell for me,” Ryan declares, and when everyone turns to him, Jamal leaning forward hopefully, he shakes his head. “A fucking drought. Try getting it on in the storeroom at Asda with those bright green shirts and smells of some fucking idiot spewing his lunch and missing the bin.” 

Roxy shakes her head, and Eggsy knows her well enough that she’s not going to contribute, that she and the new German exchange student don’t always meet to study for their law and justice classes. “I’m not, either,” he says, so Ryan and Jamal don’t immediately lay into her. It’s new between her and Amelia, he knows, too new to actually declare anything, and knowing his mates—well, he loved them and all, but they could be as subtle as a brick thrown through a window.

“What?”Ryan groans. “Eggsy, Eggsy, no, no.” 

“You’re pretty hot, bruv,” Jamal says, “though you do look like—what’s that called again, Rox?—a fuckboy when you put on them glasses.”

“They’re reading glasses,” Eggsy protests. “I need them—”

“Yeah, and they haven’t gotten you laid,” Ryan finishes. “Come on, seriously? Rox, tell me our boy’s gotten some.” 

Roxy only takes a sip of her pint, and his mates shake their heads, muttering, “Bruv.” 

Jamal now sighs, chomping on some chips, as Roxy gets up to go to the loo. “You’ve lost your game?” 

“No, been studying,” Eggsy says, a bit irritably. “And working. And studying. And writing essays. And practicing for my gymnastics team. And studying.”

“All work, no play,” Jamal groans, then nods around the pub. “Come on, cuz, you’re off for a few days. Why don’t you try to get some?” 

Together, they all scan the bar, close enough to uni to attract the student population but far enough that neighborhood residents came as well. There are a few birds in a group, clustered in a booth, and some blokes watching an old football game on the telly. No one’s really looking at them, and Jamal’s just suggesting that they finish their pints and get to a club when Ryan begins pushing Eggsy’s shoulder. 

“That bloke is staring at you at the bar, near the loo,” Ryan whispers. “Brown hair, glasses, shirt with them buttons popped at the top—cuz, if I was bent, I’d be going for ‘im.” 

“Who?” Eggsy asks, then turns. The man holds his gaze, expression perfectly blank, but he can read the  _fuck me, he’s hot_  eyes pretty well by now. “All right, lads, goin’ go do this, kamikaze-style.”

And Eggsy’s already off, fueled by alcohol and the realization of  _yeah, I haven’t gotten any since the early 2000_ s. He sidles up to him, nodding, subtly eyeing him up and down. 

“Hello,” Eggsy says. 

The man nods. “Hello yourself. Ordering something?” 

“Nah,” Eggsy says, “just coming over to see you.” He sticks out his hand, tilting it so that his palm is facing the ground, knuckles raised. “Eggsy.”

“Harry,” Harry replies, then obligingly raises his knuckles to his lips, kissing them. “Pleasure to meet you.” 

“Likewise,” Eggsy replies in his best posh accent. “So, Harry, would you care to have a drink with me?”

* * *

“…And that was the best fucking night of my life,” Eggsy confides to Roxy as they walk to class. “And early morning, too. He even cooked me fucking breakfast. Who even does that?” 

“Well, Ryan and Jamal should be pleased with you,” Roxy says primly, adjusting her laptop case in her arms. 

“Too bad you missed a glimpse of him,” Eggsy says, holding the door to the lecture hall open for her, “but once he wanted to get out of there…” He winks. “He looked like a gentleman, but let me tell you, when we got into the cab, his hands gravitated towards my arse immediately like it was the Holy Grail.”

Roxy shakes her head, no doubt bemoaning the mangling of a classic Arthurian legend, but Eggsy continues, sliding into a seat, voice lowered: “And his wasn’t so bad, either. I mean, if he look at him, he’s looks like some guy who sits in some sort of office, but he was well fit.” 

“What did he look like?”

“Older bloke, glasses, brown hair in a bit of a posh comb-over, but really was like…” Eggsy scrunches up his fists. “Dandelion puffs in the morning. His name was Harry, and he gave me his number…Rox? Are you all right?”

Roxy’s face is a bit pale, knuckles gripping her laptop case. Eggsy looks at her, tilting his head. “What is it?”

“And you met him in the bar near university?”

“Yeah, you were there, too, remember?”

“And he was older? How much?”

“I dunno, like, in his fifties? Are you judging me, Rox?” 

“Did he say where he worked?” 

“What? No, we were too busy—”

“All right, Eggsy, I may be wrong, and I  _really_  hope I’m wrong, but…” Wordlessly, she nods towards the front, and Eggsy can feel his stomach drop to his shoes. 

“Oh.” Eggsy says faintly. “Oh, fuck.” 

He grabbed his professor’s arse. And his professor had grabbed  _his_  arse…among other things.

Eggsy manages to get out his laptop, even though his mind has gone completely numb. He needs a drink. Hell, he needs a round of shots because he had snogged and groped a member of university faculty, a man he’d have to be in a classroom with. In close proximity. For five months. 

So much for that letter of recommendation. 


	64. nanny/single parent au, part two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first part is [here!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7980943/chapters/18259636)

Harry always thought that nannies were for children whose parents couldn’t bother to do actual parenting. He remembered going over to his friends’ houses and seeing the parents either locked up in a study or simply not there, then waving aside or accepting offers of tea and biscuits from a frazzled-looking (usually) older woman. Whenever his peers complained about their mum and dad not showing up for this or that, Harry always felt a soft of smug superiority that at least one of his parents or a close family relative came to support him and didn’t just send the butler in their places. He’d promised himself that if he ever had children—a thought that had diminished quite considerably since joining Kingsman—he wouldn’t be like  _those_  parents.

And now, he has joined their ranks. He’s certain Eggsy looks upon him with the same disdain he’d had—turnabout’s fair play, he supposed—thinking him another of those uptight snobs who see children as, at best, their heirs and spares, and at worst, utter nuisances and a stain on the family name. 

 _You don’t understand_ , he wants to say, but he’s certain it won’t do him any good, especially since Eggsy, as a civilian, cannot know about Kingsman being more than a tailor shop. Instead, he gets woken up early by pots and pans clanging in the kitchen and goes downstairs to see Eggsy whipping up breakfast for Roxy and Daisy. Harry tried to join them, but he and Roxy barely could say two words to each other, much less to Eggsy or his little sister, so he ended up slipping out as quietly as possible, texting Eggsy instructions while in the cab. 

And does he feel like a prat while typing  _please make sure Roxy practices her violin_  and  _do_   _let me know about her progress in mathematics_? Yes, he does. 

Moreover, Harry feels guilty—and more and more frustrated. He finds himself cursing at everyone, at Arthur for keeping him after hours, at Merlin for frustratingly steady patience, at some of knights who make jokes about his new fatherhood and no wife, at the staff who manage to shove a sympathy casserole or covered dish on his way out, at James for not finishing his mission up faster, and at—most unfairly—Alastair for dying and leaving Harry in charge of his daughter. 

He wants to snap at Eggsy, too, but the young man is only doing his job. It’s not Eggsy’s fault that Harry can charm targets into giving up their passcodes and intel but can’t seem to say more than three sentences to Roxy. 

Tonight, Harry comes home after one of those missions that show the uglier, twisted part of humanity, his ribs aching and head still pulsing from the blast of the hand grenade. Given the lateness of the hour, he feels like a cheating husband sneaking back into his own house while turning the key in the lock and stepping inside to see Eggsy, who’s putting a plate in the dishwasher.

Eggsy turns, nodding in his direction. "Hey.”

“Hello,” Harry replies, setting his umbrella by the door and divesting himself of his coat. “I do apologize for keeping you up late. I’m sure you want to go home.” 

Eggsy only shrugs. 

“You are welcome to stay here, of course,” Harry says. “There’s some extra toiletries in the downstairs bathroom, and you may have…” He pauses, remembering that Roxy now resides in the guest bedroom. “You may have my bed, if you wish,” he finishes. “You and Daisy.”

“Daisy’s with Roxy, actually,” Eggsy says quietly. “And I don’t mind taking the couch. Really.”

Harry thinks back to all those times he’s come home late, Eggsy either tidying up or dozing on the couch, and wonders if Eggsy had been in a proper bed at all this month. “No, I insist. Allow me to change the sheets and covers as well. I’m not expected at work until eleven tomorrow anyway.” Eggsy hesitates, and Harry continues, a note of insistence in his tone, “Please. It’s the last I can offer.”

Eggsy then slowly nods, then turns back to the sink to wash his hands. “Thank you,” he says, “and if you haven’t eaten, I made Roxy something, so you can heat up the leftovers.” 

“Much obliged,” Harry says, then opens the refrigerator. There’s a baking dish of shepherd’s pie, and he lades out a portion for himself and puts it in the microwave. “Would you…?”

Eggsy waves his hand. “Already ate.”

Harry lingers by the microwave, resisting the urge to fidget, all while Eggsy slowly dries his hands and puts the kettle on. “Tea?” 

“Please,” Harry says, then steps forward. “Allow me, please. I don’t expect you to serve me in any way. Sit down.” 

Eggsy obeys, taking a seat in the dining room, then clears his throat. “Uh, Roxy got into bed all right. I’ve been checking up on her every so often. No…nightmares yet. And my sister’s with her, just to keep her company.” He twists his fingers in his lap. “She’s been doing good during the day, too. Keeps up her lessons and all. And even though she and Daisy are years apart, they seem to get along. Roxy’s even teaching her some stuff.” 

“That’s very good,” Harry says, then takes the shepherd’s pie out and sits down across from Eggsy, keeping an ear out for the kettle. 

“And Roxy says she’s ready to go back to school,” Eggsy reports. 

Harry nods slowly. He’d been meaning to find a time to suggest that. “She can keep the tutor if she wants. She has no obligation—”

“No,” Eggsy says, “I think she wants to…try to get back to normal. Bury herself in routine, mundane sh—stuff like schoolwork and sports and gossip so she can forget.”

“I understand.” Harry takes a bite of the shepherd’s pie, eyes widening slightly before asking, “Did you make this?” 

“Yeah. Sorry, is it—”

“No, it’s good. Better than good.” Harry stares at the flaky crust and tiny pieces of vegetables and beef, then puts it down on his plate with a clatter. “ _Fuck_. I’m a shit guardian.“

Eggsy visibly startles, but Harry continues, a bit bitterly, “I knew I couldn’t do it. Alastair, her father…for some reason left Roxy’s care up to me, and…I’ve never had children of my own. Not even a younger sibling—only child.”

“Then why did he leave you with her?” Eggsy asks, and although Harry knows this tone—coaxing, ready to reassure him that Alastair chose Harry for some untapped pore rental Harry hasn’t realized—he scoffs.

“Well, I wasn’t his first choice,” Harry says dryly. “His partner was next.”

“Where is he?” Eggsy asks. 

Harry sighs, knowing what he’s about to say will make James seems like an irresponsible prat. “Not…in London at the moment.” Eggsy frowns, but says nothing, though his expressions speaks volumes. “He wants to come home. But…” What can he say? Business trip? “He’s indisposed.”

Eggsy raises his eyebrows. “Right.”

Harry decides to move on: “And this is why I cannot thank you enough. For doing what I am failing to do.” He takes a few more bites of the dinner Eggsy prepared, feeling guilt rise up at the memories of takeaways and restaurants for Roxy. Why hadn’t he tried making her something other than eggs and cereal? Had he even been home long enough to do more than that?

“Look,” Eggsy finally says, “I can’t say I know you very well. But it sounds like you were…you got thrown into this pretty fast, and it ain’t easy, especially with someone else sort of taking your place. Or your friend’s place. But I’ve talked to Roxy.”

“And she hates me.” 

“No, she doesn’t. She likes you. She thinks you’re cool, and guv, that’s a good compliment from an eight-year-old. It’s just…” Eggsy struggles for a moment, then continues, “She’s still grieving. She wants her dad back…and her other dad back, too. And she thinks…she wants you here, too, but doesn’t know if  _you_  want her.” 

Harry closes his eyes. “I thought  _she_  didn’t want me.” He then shakes his head. “I’ve been such a…” There’s not even a word for it, is it? 

Eggsy’s hand moves across the table, then draws back, uncertain. “You’re not…”

“I am,” Harry finishes. “And I need to do better.” The kettle finally goes off, and he rises, taking two cups out of the cupboard and preparing the only tea he has, a dull Earl Grey. Handing a steaming mug to Eggsy, Harry takes his seat again, holding his own between his palms, and looks at Eggsy, young and tired but sitting up to listen to an old man’s problems. “Perhaps you can help me.”

Eggsy nods, and there may be a ghost of a smile forming. “Maybe I can.”


	65. making deals with demons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for dubcon/noncon (in terms of hidden/different identity)

“Sit down, Eggsy.” 

Eggsy obeys, taking a seat opposite of Merlin’s desk. “Is this about my mission in Brussels? I mentioned in my field report that—”

Merlin silences him with a short glare. “It’s about Harry.”

Even though he had expected this to come up, Eggsy still tenses. “Harry?” he asks, as innocently as he can. 

“Eggsy,” Merlin says, “I’ve known Harry for the past few decades, and that is  _not_ Harry.” 

“What do you mean that’s not Harry?” Eggsy asks, trying to hold onto his faked ignorance for as long as he can. “Yeah, he’s different, but that’s because he was shot in the fucking  _head_.” 

“Which, as we all know, has a slow survival rate, especially since the Statesman confirmed him dead. His  _brains_ were blown out—”

“Guess they got it wrong, then.” Eggsy shrugs, beginning to get out of his chair. “Look, I’m not looking a gift horse in the mouth, and I don’t see why you’re bringing it up months later. If you excuse me, I have a lunch appointment with him in a few minutes, so…” 

“ _Eggsy_.” Merlin doesn’t stand up or raise his voice, but his tone gets steely, as deadly as a weapon in his hand. “I may surround myself with science and technology on a twenty-four-seven basis, but I was raised for a brief time in the Scotland highlands with my grandmother who used to used to leave milk out for the fairies, along with a consistent environment of Catholicism, the  _you will burn in hell_ kind. In another case, I’d call it a miracle. But in this case…I suspect you’ve had your suspicions.” 

Eggsy opens his mouth to further protest, but the words die on his tongue. He could forgive the stiffness around his sister skinning her knee on the playground as awkwardness of not knowing what to do with a kid. He could forgive the pointed silence around Eggsy’s mum as lingering guilt and not wanting to bring up the past. He could even forgive Harry’s rolling of his eyes at Eggsy’s panic about JB getting out one day and racing for the busy London traffic as an annoyance of Eggsy’s carelessness for opening the door too widely. 

But he can’t forget the  _sharpness_ there is to Harry, something that he knew had been there, but had been cushioned by his gentleman’s manners and basic human empathy. He still feels the bruises on his hips, the methodical way he’d interrogated an arms dealer in Portugal, the slight upward curl of his lips when he’d demolished fifty dozen people in a train station in Poland. This is no longer quite the man who had run towards a grenade to save the lives of four men; who had said, _A Kingsman takes a life only to save another;_ and had his dead dog propped up as a memorial. This is someone who’d had the essence of a Kingsman stripped away from him, the man Eggsy had fallen for in the tailor shop’s dressing room that night. 

“I may have…” Eggsy hesitates. “Sold my soul.” 

Merlin closes his eyes for a long while, then rubs his temples. The gesture is surprisingly comforting in its familiarity, the same thing he’d done when he and Roxy had drunk through a case of vodka undercover or when Eggsy decided to parkour along the Great Wall of China. Maybe there’s  _some_ way to fix this. “Shit, Eggsy. What the fuck have you done?”

“It was either someone else’s life or mine!” Eggsy protests. 

“What did you  _say_?” Merlin demands, now all business. “If you sold your soul, at least tell me the deal was worth it.” 

“ _Worth_ it?” Eggsy snaps, then is once again silenced by Merlin’s glare. He juts out his chin, defiant and sure, even though his foundation is quickly crumbling underneath his feet. “I asked for him back.” 

“And you didn’t say  _how_ , did you?” 

Eggsy pauses, thinking back to that night, knees trembling underneath his long coat and an arsenal of weapons on his person, even though he was sure they’d do him no good. Silver and iron and salt and holy water, that’s what he had read and that’s what he’d brought, too, along with a deal on his lips. 

 _He’s dead, Eggsy, I’m sorry,_ and he’d thought, _No. Not like this._

He’d researched until his wrists and eyes were sore, trying to delay his stay in Kentucky for as long as possible, but nothing could have prepared him for the acrid smoke that wound into his lungs, squeezing, and the suggestive trail that roamed across his bare skin underneath his clothes. The eyes that looked at him, so much like Harry’s that he’d almost cried out, and the voice that kindly, softly, asked,  _What do you want, Gary Unwin?_

 “…No,” he admits, voice smaller. 

Merlin closes his eyes again, and Eggsy involuntarily shivers. Right. He’d fucked up. 

 _It’s just the effect of the signal,_ he’d thought.  _The brain damage._  But he knew it wasn’t right. He’d known. And he hadn’t done anything. 

Because Harry had been worth it. He’d thought it when Harry had embraced him for the first time, murmuring reassurances in his ear. It was easy to hold onto his apathy about what happened after death, what happened upstairs and downstairs and in-between, and strangely, it still is. He’d been prepared to do anything, shed his blood or walk through fire, and nothing could have been worse than living without Harry Hart. 

A part of him still believes that. 

Merlin’s voice is low, quick, and he’s getting out of his chair, snatching up his tablet. “We’re going back to Kentucky. This evening.” 

Eggsy can only stare, frozen to his seat, watching Merlin bustle about for the umbrella and some files. “What?” 

“I know what to do,” Merlin says, then changes his mind, rifling through a cabinet. “I  _think_ I know what we’re going to do. But first, we have to deal with Harry.”

“We’re not  _killing_ him. Merlin, fucking hell, we’re not—” 

“Gentlemen?” 

And Harry’s  _here_ , smiling, leaning up against the door Eggsy could have sworn was tightly closed behind him a second ago. “Am I interrupting?”


	66. entering a parallel universe

It’s nothing like being blasted with a ray invented by a reclusive biochemical engineer—”We got a fucking  _mad scientist_ , Rox!”—to put life in perspective. 

To add onto that, they’re apparently in London in 2017 in a fucking parallel universe. Either that, or it’s a hell of a practical joke that all the media and the people of the Earth are in on. Just by leafing through a newspaper someone had left on a bench, Roxy determined that President Hillary Clinton gave a speech discussing the Paris Agreement, much of the former House of Lords and the Royal Family were still alive, Richmond Valentine had opened up an academy for technology and science for lower-income students, and Idris Elba had been cast as the new James Bond. Otherwise, as Eggsy noted, this world resembles the one they’d left behind, and their plan is to race down to Savile Row and, providing the biometric security no longer works for them, try to prove themselves as allies to Kingsman and somehow get in to see Merlin. 

Roxy leads the way, then has to stop Eggsy from getting a tray of fish and chips. “What about the butterfly effect?” she asks. Part of her still doesn’t quite believe they’re in a different world, but the other part is genre-savvy enough to know that every move they make could be dangerous. “For all we know, we’re not supposed to exist.” 

“I’m sure this universe isn’t going to collapse if I eat fish and chips. Maybe if I had a kale smoothie or something, but—”

“All the same, we should get to Kingsman,” Roxy says, pulling him away. Their comms don’t work—of course—and already, her mind is filling up with questions. What if they can’t prove themselves to Kingsman? What will they do if they can’t? Should they get a job? What about their papers and other legalities? And most worryingly: What if they can’t go back? Have the Roxy and Eggsy of this world switched places with them? Will the people back in their world notice that they’re gone? “Assuming it’s still…around.” 

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Eggsy asks. He’s strangely calm about this. “I mean, from the newspaper you picked up, the SIS is still around, as well as the FBI and CIA with that Russian scandal going on. I’m assuming everything else is okay.” He shrugs. “‘Sides, we haven’t traveled that far back to have meddled with the founding, yeah?”

“No, but it could already not exist.” Without Kingsman, Roxy wonders what she’d be instead—probably still in the military, most likely, or a barrister or a doctor or a high society lady. No, the world wouldn’t be so cruel. “I wonder if our American cousins are still around,” she says, mindful of people brushing past her to get a good look at the coats in the window. 

“Let’s not worry about that yet,” Eggsy says, then fiddles with the chain around his neck. “I got the medal and the code. Harry at least will recognize that.” 

“But what if he doesn’t?” 

“Why wouldn’t he?” 

“Well, we are in a world where apparently, V-Day didn’t happen,” Roxy says, trying to be delicate about this. She doesn’t know if speaking aloud about these events will rupture anything, but it also seems useless not to discuss their possibilities. “So, that means, logically, other major events didn’t occur, either.”

“ _No_ ,” Eggsy says vehemently. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, if my dad is alive, that’s good. But Harry…Harry would recognize me. In  _any_ universe.”

Roxy, already sorting through her head about the pros and cons of making Eggsy even more upset and trying to come up with a realistic plan, stops right in the middle of the sidewalk. “Well…would he still, by chance, recognize you like that?” 

“What?” Eggsy asks, then turns his head. His jaw drops at the sight of two people sitting at a coffee shop, smiling over drinks and scones. “What the…” 

They draw themselves closer to the young woman and man. The woman has dark blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail and is wearing a business suit, a briefcase at her feet, while the man is dressed in slacks and a crooked tie, hair swept back, laughing. “Face it, Rox,” he’s saying, “I’m going to fuck up this interview. Can’t you go on and speak for me?” 

“No, darling,” she says, sipping her drink. Roxy and Eggsy mouth _darling?_  to each other, still gaping quite openly at the pair, ignoring the people pushing past them. “’Sides, you got loads of charm, and even when you fluster and start stumbling, the fans love you even more for it. And James and Alastair, which is more important.” 

“I have a feeling Mum and Dad are going to record it and laugh for the rest of their lives. Just look what I did at the  _last_ Olympics…”

“Oh, please, if people are still talking about that, they’ve got nothing  _to_ talk about. If all else fails, remember what my mum always told me: smile and wave.” 

“That’s your advice to your clients, too?” 

“Of course. How do you think I win so many cases?” 

“Remind me again how you, world-class human rights barrister, managed to notice me as more than that bumbling idiot who dyed Hesketh’s hair blue in secondary?” 

“I scarcely know myself.” Just as Roxy— _Other Roxy_ , as Roxy’s pretty sure she’s in a long-term relationship with Amelia—leans in over the table to kiss him, Eggsy’s jaw has almost hit his collar. 

“Fuck me,” he whispers, “are we…are  _they_ …together in this universe?”

Roxy pulls them behind a potted plant, away from the sight of most people walking past in the street and the two impostors at the shop. Her mind’s working double time now. “If your dad never got recruited, then you wouldn’t have rubbed shoulders with Kingsman.”

“And without Dean getting in the way, I would have done gymnastics and actually gotten decent grades.” 

“Which got you into a public school.”

“Which you were in, sounds like.”

“And we somehow became an Olympian and a barrister.”

Roxy frowns. “And somehow, not that I’m complaining, James didn’t die. So my uncle never recruited me for Kingsman.”

“So, I never met Harry,” Eggsy concludes gloomily.

“And I, Amelia.” Roxy can only stare at the doppelgangers, who are currently arguing over who got to pay the bill. “Did we settle for each other or…?”

“I don’t know,” Eggsy says, nodding towards the couple on the bench. “We seem pretty much in love to me. I mean, not that you aren’t great, and in different circumstances…”

“Eggsy. Stop. I feel the same. Don’t make this awkward.” Roxy watches them  _snog_ again, grimacing. “More awkward. Now, let’s just figure out how to get out of here before you stick your tongue down my thr—spoke too soon. Let’s just move. Please.”

“Are we telling Harry or Amelia when we back back?” 

They look at each other, then collectively agree: “No.”


	67. obligatory mute!Harry fic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just some short K2-fueled speculation!

Despite Tequila’s warning, Harry’s face isn’t a shock. In fact, it looks the same as it had been three years ago, albeit with an eyepatch strapped down to hide the left eye. He’s clad in a soft, grey robe and comfortable-looking pyjamas, and his foam-covered hand slowly puts down the razor on the edge of the sink to look at them. 

Eggsy feels like when there was a flood in the recruits’ room, when he craned his neck as far up as he could go, when he nearly gasped as the water went over his head, when he had tried to move before the shock had hit him, but realized, seconds too late, that it already had. Harry’s  _alive_. Harry’s been alive in another country for three years, and no one had known. 

All he can do is stand there stupidly, as Merlin gently side-steps around him and goes to Harry, unable to hide his joy and astonishment. 

“Harry,” Merlin says warmly, lingering at the doorway as if he’s not sure whether Harry will disappear once he crosses the threshold. “Welcome back.”

Harry simply stares at them.

Eggsy steps forward, still feeling numb and shaky like after a good hit. “Harry?” he slowly says. “Do you…don’t you recognize us?”

Mutely, Harry nods.

“Are you mad at us?” Eggsy asks.  _Why isn’t he speaking?_   "Harry, we didn’t know you were here until five minutes ago, I swear. And we looked, and we should have looked harder, but it was V-Day and the world was shit and our organization was too—" He shuts up, the eerie silence of the room making his voice seem too loud, too high-pitched, too frantic. 

Harry only looks at him, then down at the floor. There’s foam still covering his chin and left side of his cheek, and Eggsy so badly wants to come closer and wipe it off. But Harry’s expression, carefully blank, stops him. 

“Yeah, there’s one thing I didn’t get to mention before you ran off,” Tequila says, and his voice sounds oddly sympathetic, without a trace of cockiness or humor. “We don’t know what he was like before, but the damage to his brain was severe.”

“How severe?” Eggsy demands, because Harry’s looking at them, so he’s not blind, and he was shaving earlier and there’s delicate drawings on the walls, which means his motor skills are somewhat intact. He’s not hooked up to any machines or laying in bed, so he’s not gravely injured. He doesn’t seem to not recognize them, so no years-erasing amnesia is at work. 

Tequila hesitates, then says, “Severe enough that he hasn’t really spoken in three years.” 

“At all?” Merlin asks, face paling. 

“Just…sounds. We see him mouthing to himself on camera, but we’re not getting anything.” 

“ _No_ ,” Eggsy snaps. “Harry, Harry’s just…” Just…what? Pretending? What’s Eggsy even thinking? What does he even want? Besides, the man Eggsy knew wouldn’t have toyed with him like that. 

 _You barely knew him,_  a voice points out.

Eggsy ignores it. He forgets the long months of grief, of anger, of helplessness. All of them have fallen away now in a span of mere seconds. “He’s fine. I know he is.” 

Tequila looks on, face filled with something Eggsy doesn’t like to see: pity. “He is healthy, otherwise. But you’ll have to get used to…a few new things.” 

“I can,” Eggsy says, Merlin oddly not saying a word, only looking at Harry silently, head cocked, as if he’s studying an illegible map. “Harry’s back. That’s all that matters to me.” 

He can’t be sure, but he thinks he sees the faintest, if saddened, smile on Harry’s lips. 


	68. I'd follow you anywhere

Harry hates anything having to do with sickbeds and white coats, and even after losing a good chunk of his memories, still does. He can easily recall the sterile smell of machines and medicines and painfully scrubbed tiles, the ninety-degree angles of hospital corners for the wrinkle-free sheets, and the annoyance of having people swarm around him with advice and worry and thumb-sized tablets. Most of all, though, is the helplessness, something that can’t ever be shaken off, regardless of the training with weapons and hand-to-hand and restraint.

Worse than laying there in that bed is seeing someone else in it.

Eggsy and Merlin have been wheeled out from surgery, Merlin and Ginger holing up in his room together, Ginger agreeing to let Merlin stay up as long as he remained in bed. Despite the stumps where Merlin’s legs used to be, his old friend seems happy to enough to be alive and have his hands intact, talking to Ginger about some old computer game they used to play as teenagers.

Eggsy, however, has no such visitors. Tequila has long since passed out in the next room, while Whiskey had popped in for a quick chat and immediately left when he saw Harry lingering at the doorway.

“Apologies if I interrupted anything,” Harry says, taking a seat at Eggsy’s bedside. Eggsy’s wrapped in bandages, clad in a hospital gown with his head shaved from the surgery, but still smiles when he sees Harry in his one-eyed and fur-lined leather jacket glory. 

“Nah,” Eggsy says. “Not much of a conversation, really. Just a proposal of sorts.”

Harry frowns. “Oh?”

“Jack was offering me a position at Statesman,” Eggsy says.

 _Jack_. Harry knows little about the man who’d stepped up to help Eggsy and Merlin with the fight against Poppy and her associates. From what he’s gathered, Whiskey and Eggsy had disliked each other at the beginning, but as it is with the nature of their work, became fire-forged allies. He’d seen Eggsy look to Whiskey for guidance many times during their last stand against Poppy, so similar that Harry had to push down the bile collecting in his stomach.

“I’m not going,” Eggsy says quickly, something that Harry doesn’t care to analyze glittering in his eyes, “just so you know.”

Genuinely curious, Harry leans forward. “Why?”

Eggsy shrugs, wincing a bit when it pulls his shoulder. “They don’t need me here, not really. ‘Sides, how can I abandon Kingsman, especially with you at the wheel?”  

“And how did you know that?”

“Merlin told me. He’s going to fob the job off on you.” Eggsy grins, then winks so quickly that Harry almost misses it. “And I think I’d like you better the last two we got.”

Privately, Harry’s not so sure. He’s never been anything else but a field agent, after all, and building Kingsman up from three members and no resources is the biggest challenge he’s ever come across. But there’s another matter at hand: “You’re going to follow me all the way back to London to a dead organization and possibly little to no pay?”

“I’d follow you anywhere.”

It’s the drugs, Harry decides. It has to be.

“Eggsy,” Harry says, not quite sure why he’s trying to talk him out of this, but a part of him is still too proud to beg.  _Stay_. “It’ll be difficult. We have four members of Kingsman—no money, no power, no resources. We’ll have to start from the bottom up.”

“That was possible decades ago,” Eggsy says stubbornly. Harry half expects him to cross his arms. “We got help, too—Ginger and Champ say Statesman’s got more money than God, and Tequila’s thinking about venturing across the pond himself. Besides, in your voice recording, you told me that being a Kingsman was more than fancy clothes or flashy weapons. It was something a part of you, and  _you_ got it.”

“Maybe I did once,” Harry argues. “But now—“

“Fuck that.” Eggsy shakes his head. “I wasn’t able to sacrifice for the greater good like you told me. You had to do that for me. What does that make me?”

“You’re a Kingsman,” Harry insists. 

“And you are, too,” Eggsy retorts.

Harry’s prepared to argue this point further, but Eggsy yawns, smiling absentmindedly as the drugs begin to fully take effect. “Don’t think this gets you out of this conversation. We’re going home. Together.”

“Together,” Harry echoes, then, almost instinctively, takes his hand. He’s about to pull away, but Eggsy grips harder, stubborn until his eyes shut.  _Together. Together._


	69. an assortment of handwritten notes

_Eggsy,_

_Merlin called me into the shop. Apparently, Kay’s Hanoi mission took a bad turn, and he can hardly stand and persuade anyone to buy a suit in his condition. I know it’s your day off, and I apologize that we didn’t get that morning we planned. I’ll make it up to you tonight. Do you like cannolis?_

_~ Harry_

* * *

_Had to run to Nairobi, please remember to pick up Daisy at her school at three. Love you!_

_~Eggsy_

* * *

_My darling, I’m still in Honduras with Agent Tequila, but you’re always in my thoughts. We cleaned up that smuggling ring, but must complete a last-minute problem that cropped up. I was told many times by Agent Tequila that I was a “dickhead boyfriend” for not sending you anything for weeks. Please accept these chocolates with my compliments. Don’t let Merlin steal the bourbon from you. ~Harry_

* * *

_Pasta’s in the fridge and JB’s been walked. That wanker Merlin assigned me some last minute thing and wouldn’t listen when I told him we were having a night in. I’ll make it up when I come back, if you know what I mean ;) ~Eggsy_

* * *

_Happy birthday, dearest. I do hope you like the flowers; your mother mentioned that daisies are your favorite. There’s more, of course, but I’d rather give it to you in person. Apparently, Russian oligarchs don’t give a whit about birthdays. Those ice cold bastards. ~Harry_

* * *

_Roses are red, violets are blue, Chester was an arse, but not you. Happy Coronation Anniversary! ~Eggsy_

_PS hope you like the tiara. Daisy helped._

* * *

_Two years, Eggsy, and I can’t imagine two more without you. I know flowers are traditional, but I thought you’d appreciate this more. Breakfast is downstairs. Head down when you’re ready._

_Love, Harry_

* * *

_~~Harry, I know this is a bit off now that we’ve finally seen Gone Girl, but…well, shit, you probably know what this is, don’t you? It’s not like we haven’t talked about it. I’m fucking this up, aren’t I fucking hell. I meant to write you a poem, but I’m rubbish. It’s your fault if you still want to be~~ _

_Harry, meet me at the tailor shop you and I talked about. I’ll be waiting for you._

_Love, Eggsy_


	70. duet

“It’s a bit cliche, isn’t it?” Eggsy asks, pacing backstage, trying not to peek behind the curtain. “Duet act on a cruise?” 

“Don’t think we can pull it off?” Harry asks dryly. He’s got his instrument ready, gleaming gold in the dim light. They’ve practiced together, yeah, but Eggsy still can’t believe Harry plays the  _sax_ , of all things. It’s fitting, though: smooth, liquid sex, just like Harry’s voice. Fuck, he’s too far gone. 

“I ain’t saying that,” Eggsy says quickly. “I’m just saying, it’s…it’s a bit different from what we do. ‘Sides, I’m not the best singer.” 

This time, Harry looks his way, raising an eyebrow. “Eggsy. You have a lovely voice. If you had been discovered, you would have been swept up by a record company. Are you getting stage fright?” 

“No!” Eggsy protests, then admits, “Maybe. I’ve never sang in front of anyone before. Not like this.”

“There’s a trick to this,” Harry reassures. “Focus on one person in the audience. Play to them.” 

“But I don’t know anyone. I ain’t going to be looking some stranger in the eyes for trust, you know?”

“Then look at me,” Harry says, so gently. “Keep your eyes on me. Can you do that?” 

Wordlessly, Eggsy nods, opening his mouth to say something, like a  _thanks_ or a blurted confession, but he wouldn’t know because the red velvet curtain is rising, and he freezes like a deer in the headlights.

“Ladies and gentleman,” their mark, who may or may not be part of a drug trafficking circle, greets. He’s wearing a dark blue tuxedo with a silver bowtie and fedora that make tiny lights dance around the room, and Eggsy catches a few of the people in the front row, mostly older couples with wine glasses on their tables. “We have a special treat for you tonight. Joining us from London, this duo will be playing us some American classics. Let’s give it up for  _Love Songs After Dark_.” 

There’s a smattering of polite applause, and not for the first time, Eggsy wonders why Merlin chose such a cheesy as fuck name for their so-called band. They had to pose for a few Photo-shopped CD covers, mostly them in front of palm trees or in cocktail bars, dressed immaculately in dark tuxedos. 

The spotlight turns down, and Eggsy feels his palms sweat as he grips the mic. Harry’s as calm as ever, raising the saxophone to his lips and waiting for Eggsy’s nod. 

Well, he can’t keep standing here forever. Eggsy nods, and Harry begins to play the intro, Eggsy resisting the urge to shuffle in place and trying to listen for his cue. Already, he’s sweating in his midnight blue tux and slicked-back hair, but as Roxy says, the show must go on. 

“ _Fly me to the moon_ ,” he begins, a bit tentatively. “ _Let me play amongst the stars._ ” Remembering Harry’s advice, Eggsy glances to the side, catching Harry’s eye and holding it. “ _Let me see what spring is like.._.”

He gains more and more confidence as he goes on, allowing a bit of twirling in place and a few elaborate hand gestures. Harry continues playing, notes flowing from his saxophone as easily as breathing. He can’t offer any words of encouragement, but clear approval shines in his eyes as Eggsy keeps going, as well as something else. Something softer. Something he somehow hadn’t noticed before. Something that’s coming on during a love duet, of all things. 

Eggsy doesn’t let himself think, just keeps singing and singing, feet bringing him closer and closer to Harry. The audience is forgotten as he croons the last lines, hesitance back in his voice, palms really sweating this time: “ _In other words, please be true. In other words, in other words…_ ” He lets himself pause, then leans forward, lips brushing the mic. “ _I love you._ ”

Surprise flashes in Harry’s eyes, then there’s a small, discernible nod in reply. 

They can’t do anything, not in public like this, but Eggsy grins, wide and happy, as the audience applauds.


	71. strike a pose

“Why are you turning your head like that?” 

“It’s my best side,” Eggsy says, then gives a smile for the camera. He checks the photo to make sure the lighting’s all right and his face doesn’t look weird before captioning it with a  _lunch date <3 _before sending it off to Roxy and his mates. 

“Best side?” Harry replies, tone joking, but something in his eyes– _eye–_ changes, and both of them remember the black eye patch sitting over the hollow space where his eye used to be. Harry’s always careful not to let him see it, even when everything’s turned down for the night, and Eggsy doesn’t ask. Not because he’s going to recoil or flee, but because there’s some things you have to let people show you on their own. 

“Shallow, I know,” Eggsy says, trying to keep it light. “But I think my nose looks better on this side than it does on this.” He turns his head back and forth, a bit mockingly. “You got to get it right in these photos. I think also that you could see this gold speck in my eye if I justttttt look at the camera. Like so.” Eggsy then cocks his head ever so slightly, looking up from both eyes like he’s squinting into the sun, an exaggerated pout on his lips. 

Harry laughs. “You look ridiculous.” 

“No, I look fucking fantastic.” Eggsy sways in place like a male model, snapping his hips, ignoring the stares around them. “Don’t I?” he asks, flexing his muscles through the thin white tank top, posing with one knee forward in his board shorts. “Don’t I look… _fabulous_?”

“You look magnificent,” Harry says dryly, smile on his face. “Absolutely stunning.” 

“I knew it,” Eggsy says, then poses again, as if he’s throwing a disk at the Olympics. “Ah?” Behind him, he hears faint giggles, and he changes positions, rolling his shoulders and taking up a fake boxing stance. “Emphasizes my pecs, and I bet the sun is hitting me just in the right light. Bits of gold, maybe?” 

He looks up, ready to throw another cheeky comment, then pauses at the fondness in Harry’s gaze. It’s so open, so loving that Eggsy keeps standing like this, feet frozen on the boardwalk, as Harry eventually strides forward, reaching out with both hands. 

Now the small crowd around him begins whistling as Harry draws him closer, palms on either side of his face, and kisses him. Eggsy responds, grinning, his hands clutching at Harry’s shoulders, and too soon, Harry pulls away to look at him. “You look lovely,” he says, with a soft smile, then begins kissing him very lightly: “Your eyes, your nose, your jaw…” 

“Don’t forget about you.” Eggsy draws back and kisses his forehead. He has to stand on his toes to do it, but it’s worth it. “You’re pretty fucking amazing yourself.” 


	72. listening to each other's breathing

His dreams never quite make sense the way they used to. Harry’s aware this time that he’s back in his cell, bright lights turned up and padded walls covered in butterfly sketches, but that’s all he can collect. He’s offered a burger with a too-shiny bun on a silver platter, Poppy’s red fingernails holding onto them, Valentine’s cajoling voice offering him a Big Mac, Gazelle’s legs reflecting across his vision. The door opens, revealing Tequila and Whiskey and Merlin and Eggsy,  _ready to come out?, who are you?, tell us about yourself, you’re here,_ voices and accents blending into each other like felt tips on the soft walls. Hands touch his face, lifting his eyepatch, putting it back on, probing the dead flesh, stroking it gently, pulling back his eyelid. 

 _Harry,_ someone says, _come back. You’re alive. Is he dead? That tends to happen when you shoot someone in the head. Galahad. Grenade! Harry, I’m so sorry; I’m going to…_

Going to what? 

 _You stay here; I’ll sort out this mess when I get back. Dear Eggsy, Eggsy, Eggsy, I saw in you what someone saw in me. I see a young man with potential. Have you seen_ Trading Places _? Gin and vermouth and an olive, sounds easy enough until you try to make it on your own. Breakfast is served. Eggsy? I’m sorry, I can’t…_

There’s no evil laugh or slamming of the cell door to wake him up; Harry just wakes, heart pounding, sweat trickling down his back. His hands scrabble for the orange bottle of pills by his bedside, then remember he’s stopped those a week ago, then simply lay there for a second, trembling and listening. 

Eggsy’s steady breathing is the only sound in the room, and Harry’s heart rate begins to lower with each rise and fall of his chest. He’s alive and well and sleeping beside him in their new home, the one they’d picked together that’s a ways from the slowly rebuilding shop. Eggsy had been enamored of the large claw foot tub, the window seats in the office, and the backyard with the fire pit and doghouse, showing Harry pictures on the screen of his mobile.  _We can sit out here during the summer months and grill and maybe have Mum and Daisy over,_  he’d said eagerly, and Harry could picture it, even from the confines of their plane, heading back to an uncertain future and a home he hadn’t seen in a long time. 

Time, even now, seems confusing, looping endlessly with names and faces that feel half-dreamed. He finds himself standing still long enough to try to file these in his mind, wishing for paper and pen, and repeating different conversations and recollections like well-tread mantras. His stomach feels queasier than he remembers, his back and limbs also aching, his mind still wide awake during all hours of the night, and Harry doesn’t need to go into the lack of vision. The Statesman act vaguely guilty around him, but Harry can’t hold onto any resentment after all this time; Kingsman had prisoners before, after all. 

One of the only things that steadies him is Eggsy. Eggsy, resplendent in his new bespoke suit for the shop’s reopening; Eggsy, cuddling two puppies, a pug and a terrier, in his arms before settling them into their cages for the recruits; and Eggsy, breathing soundly and deeply alongside him in their bed. 

“Harry?” Eggsy now murmurs. He’s still new to being a spy, the sort that can sleep peacefully through the night without stirring at an odd creak of the house settling. “Y’okay?” 

“I’m all right,” Harry reassures him, then briefly rubs Eggsy’s arm under the covers. There’s a puckered scar there from long before he’d become a Kingsman, and his fingers trace over it before moving to the shoulder, slightly bared to the room. “Go back to sleep.” 

“Y’sure?” Eggsy sounds more awake now, and Harry gently tugs his hand away before it touches the lamp on the nightstand. “Do you need something?” 

“No,” Harry says.  _Just you._  

“All right,” Eggsy says, sounding a bit skeptical, but curls up into Harry’s body, head nuzzling underneath his chin. “Just let me know. We don’t have to be at the shop until nearly ten.” Already, he’s almost half-asleep. “And we have dinner with Mum and Daisy, so we need to get…desserts…”

“Yes,” Harry says, closing his eyes. 

“Florentines…” 

“Yes,” Harry repeats, quietly amused. “Florentines.” 

“Mmm,” Eggsy mutters, then says something about strawberries and coffee. “Harry, you ain’t asleep.” 

 Harry smiles fondly, then rolls over, throwing an arm around Eggsy’s waist. His heart rate is back to normal, and soon, his sleeping breaths join Eggsy’s.  


	73. coming into contact with a curse

“Tell me,” Valentine says, “what do you wish?”

Harry leans forward, his expression a careful picture of desperation and uncertainty. With Merlin’s talents, Harry’s appearance is that of a slightly older man with greying hair and blue eyes, dressed in tattered clothes. Valentine allowed no weapons in his tent, and Harry took care to leave his sword with Valentine’s assistant, a young woman with dark hair, a cool gaze, and silver legs. Rumors had it that the woman, Gazelle, had lost her legs after an attack on her village, and Valentine had transformed two broadswords to replace them. 

They were feared equally, though, so Harry took precautions. He still has a dagger strapped in his boot and a few protection spells cast upon his person, and he’s careful to appear meek and unassuming to Gazelle watching him from the shadows. The wizard himself seemed to have bought it, smiling eagerly in anticipation for his wish. 

“I’d like to be young again, enough to fell trees and carry the lumber without my hands and knees aching. It’s been a hard winter, and I can’t manage the farm by myself, nor dig up enough coin to hire help,” Harry says, adding a wizened note into his voice. “If you could shave off a few years, that will mean very much to me.” 

Valentine considers, then shakes his head. “I don’t see that. No offense, but I don’t. That’s not your wish.”

“I beg your pardon,” Harry says, not having to pretend to be startled. He’d never heard of Valentine refusing anyone’s wish, no matter how gruesome or selfish. “But this  _is_ my wish.”

“No,” Valentine replies thoughtfully. “it isn’t.” 

Harry has to resist the urge to start cursing. “What do you mean?” he asks instead, appropriately baffled. 

“You want something else,” Valentine says, playing with one of the silver rings glinting on his fingers. “Yeah, you want to be younger…who doesn’t? But that’s not your heart’s desire, and  _my_ job is to grant those heart’s desires.” He leans across the table, the long sleeves of his purple robe trailing on the red velvet tablecloth. “You want something else.” 

“What do you think that is?” 

Valentine shrugs. “I can’t tell just yet. You need to have me take a look.” 

Harry narrows his eyes. “How?” 

“If you permit me to step into your mind for a bit, I can help.” 

Panic trickles down his spine, but Harry does little more than lean further back in his seat. Merlin had prepared for this, too, based on the intel they had gathered, but he could only help Harry in a minimal amount. Too strong of a block would attract Valentine’s attention, so Merlin trained Harry for mental techniques using his own magic. Thank the gods Merlin was on  _his_ side. “In my head? Can’t I just tell you?” 

“Thing is, many people don’t know themselves as well as they think,” Valentine says. “And if you tell me something you think you want, then it’s not something you wanted after all, I’m going to get a bad reputation for my business! We can’t have that, can we?” 

Frankly, Harry thinks that Valentine’s bad reputation has to do more with helping corrupt leaders take over lands and turning innocent people into various creatures, but calmly shakes his head. “No, I suppose not.” 

“Good!” Valentine says cheerfully, then claps both hands on the side of his head. “Let’s have a look.” 

 _No_ , Harry wants to say, but it’s too late. He quickly puts up mental blocks, trying to remember Merlin’s lessons, allowing his mind to lead Valentine away from his real memories and thoughts. Harry has to make his mind seem pliable and weak, so he conjures up images intended for Valentine to focus on, as if he’s giving away his control.

_What is your heart’s desire?_

Too late, a memory appears: a young man with dark blonde hair, laughing at something Harry had said. His training armor is dusty and a bit crooked, and Harry sees his own hands adjusting it tenderly.  _Eggsy, you need to be careful with your possessions…_

“Ah!” Valentine says suddenly, then draws his hands back. “Love! Shit, man, there we go!” 

“How will you grant it?” Harry asks, trying to hide his anger and humiliation. 

“I won’t,  _Galahad_.” 

Harry immediately rises, drawing out his dagger. “How did you know?” he asks, loud enough to be overheard for the enforcement outside. 

“I’m a fucking wizard, man,” Valentine says. “Of course I knew it was you!” He then grins. “And your wish is granted.”

Too late, Harry feels the seizing of his bones, a sharp rip through his body. He hears a few shouts when his legs give out from underneath him, and arms prop him up.

“Harry! Harry, are you all right?”

“I’m all right,” he gasps. “Percival, go. Go stop him.”

Percival instead stands over him as he writhes through the pain, sword drawn. Valentine and Gazelle seem focused more on escaping, though Gazelle slices so deeply into Lancelot’s chest that Percival audibly gasps. Valentine begins muttering something, an escape spell, and Merlin halts it with a hiss of words and a raising of his arms. Valentine narrows his eyes, then a duel commences with sparks and spells and different-colored tongues of fire. Gazelle’s protecting her master as the knights fight back, some clearly uncertain whether they should help Merlin or try to put Gazelle down. 

The last of the pain begins to recede as Merlin catches Valentine’s spell and throws it back at him, sending the other wizard crashing into the ground. In a few seconds, Merlin has magic-resistant chains clapped around Valentine’s arms, Gazelle having run off in the chaos.  

Percival, with Harry’s insistence, goes to help Bors and Kay hold Valentine as Merlin quickly attends to the wounded. Lancelot is paler than the rest, hands tightly pressed against the wound, but a bit of a flush comes back to his cheeks when Merlin is done, sweat dripping from his brow. 

Merlin looks briefly alarmed when he sees Harry, then barks orders for Valentine to be taken to face justice. The most disconcerting thing is that Valentine doesn’t struggle or mutter a few words under his breath. He only looks at Harry, smiles, and allows himself to be led away in chains, gagged so he can’t utter another spell.

They load the wounded on the wagon, and Harry, to his surprise, feels energetic enough to mount his horse. It’s only when he sees his hands gripping the reins that he feels like sliding to the ground.  

“I’m young,” Harry says.

Merlin shakes his head, voice low. “You are. By…thirty years or more. You look the way you did when you showed up to training, wet behind the ears.” 

Harry cautiously replies, “That…doesn’t seem too malicious. But assuming, since it’s Valentine…” 

“I know this one. I want to be sure, so I’m going to examine you when we get back to the castle. But I’ve seen this before. With each hour, you lose one year of your life until…“

“I’m a child again,” Harry concludes. “I don’t relish that at all. Is anyone going to change my nappies?”

“Not on your life,” Merlin says, then more seriously: “Or…depending on the nature of the curse, you vanish from existence.“

* * *

It’s confirmed, woefully enough, and Merlin does what he can, but there’s only so much he can do. He can delay it, but he has to study it to reverse the spell, and this means Harry has to wait, each hour ticking by. 

He’s always thought he’d die on a battlefield, but by this? There’s no pain, save for the one of anticipation and dread, and Harry wishes he can do more to fight this. Merlin’s reading his large tome and consulting parchments, and a few of the knights have been dispatched to attempt to extort information from Valentine, who seems cheerful for a man who’s being kept in the dungeons. 

Merlin presses Harry about his encounter, about how it felt and what Harry had said, and Harry lowers his head when Merlin raises his eyebrows at what Valentine saw. “I see,” he says, an edge of understanding creeping into his voice. “Do get Eggsy, will you?” 

“Merlin…”

“Please get him, Harry. Now.” 

Harry obeys, venturing outside. The recruits are sparring, all but one nobles who’d been groomed for this job since birth. Someone spots him, sneering and saying something that makes the others snicker. To Harry’s surprise, one of them snaps back, a young woman with hair pulled back into a ponytail, and another—Charlie, Chester’s godson—says something that makes someone step forward, making fists at his sides. 

Not to his surprise, it’s Eggsy, and Harry watches as the two boys ready their practice swords, embedded with an iron core, ready to duel. Charlie is first to strike, but Eggsy gracefully dodges away, spinning and handling the sword as if it were no lighter than a stick. He’s quick, so different from the lumbering movements of Charlie, trained by Chetser’s guards with the heavy broadsword that must be held with two hands, and it’s only when Charlie’s beginning to fall back when a trainer spots them and ushers them off the field, scolding. 

Charlie makes a rude hand gesture towards Eggsy, but Eggsy ignores it, heading for Harry with an apologetic shrug. “See all that?” 

“Yes,” Harry says. “You are skilled.” 

“I’m all right,” Eggsy says, shrugging again. “Were you just watching, or did you want to join Kingsman? I mean, a knight’s got to propose you, but if you want and you got it, I can ask my—”

“No, that’s not necessary,” Harry says quickly. “But thank you. I only…” He hesitates. “I want to know about you.” 

“Me?” Eggsy tilts his head. “I…uh, there’s not much to tell, really. Just…I was recruited a few months ago. By…Galahad.” 

“Galahad?” Vainly, Harry pushes: “What do you think of him?”

“He’s the real deal. Knight in shining armor.” Eggsy smiles. “Not like those posh fuckers who think manners are just for other nobility. He…” His tone turns a bit defensive: “He saw me in a street fight on market day. And I guess he thought I was good enough, so here I am. Maybe I can join h—Kingsman, too.” 

“I wish you the best of luck,” Harry says sincerely, and to his surprise, Eggsy flushes the slightest bit. 

“Thank you.” Eggsy then clears his throat. “Sorry, I didn’t get your name.” 

“Oh. Harry. You?” Now would be a good time to inform Eggsy about the situation and lead him back to Merlin’s, but Eggsy’s smile quashes any words that seek to come out. 

“Gary, but no one calls me that. It’s Eggsy.” 

“Eggsy,” Harry says, then, “Care to take a walk with me?” 

“I mean…look, I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

"My apologies. I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.”

“What? No, no, you’re all right! But Galahad promised me to take me out for a drink during dinner hour, and it’s time.” Eggsy grins. “I got to wash up and all. Wouldn’t want to be smelling rank in front of him. I…” 

“Harry!” Harry curses, looking to see Merlin striding across the grounds, looking peeved. “You and Eggsy come with me, please.  _Now_.”

* * *

“I have a solution,” Merlin says, rubbing his hands together. “Fairly obvious.” 

“So, what is it? A spell? Potion?” Harry refuses to look at Eggsy, humiliated at his actions, and Eggsy is similarly avoiding eye contact. 

“No,” Merlin says, clearly enjoying this. “I’m sure you both know from childhood legends.” 

“ _Merlin_!” Eggsy suddenly exclaims, to Harry’s surprise. “You cheeky…you can’t…he doesn’t…”

“Doesn’t what?” Harry asks, a bit irritably. “What is going on?” 

“I…” Eggsy’s cheeks become more and more flushed. “You know…about the old ones…the princess and the frog? And the beast? And…others?” 

Harry feels the pieces clicking together. “Ah.” 

“You don’t have to,” Eggsy says quickly. “I know you don’t see me that way. I don’t…I mean, I can live with that. I’m just some boy from the farmlands, your recruit—”

“Eggsy,” Harry interrupts. His heart is pounding very steadily in his chest, so loud that he swears everyone in this room can hear it, but he takes Eggsy’s hands in his. “ _You_ don’t have to. I know this is rather different, and just because I’m under a spell—”

“Weren’t you listening to anything I was saying?” Eggsy demands, pulling him closer. “ _Harry_ , I…” He then shakes his head, then leans in. 

Harry meets him in the middle, arms finding their way around Eggsy’s waist. Almost immediately, his body begins to burn, and he gasps into Eggsy’s mouth. Eggsy pulls away, a worried look on his face, and Harry watches his hands change, growing wrinkles and a few spots, looking bonier and longer. Eggsy lightly holds them, mouth slightly open, and gently squeezes. “I got you, Harry,” he says, “I—”

With a final groan of pain, Harry slumps over, and Eggsy catches him around the middle, Merlin stepping forward. “Harry! You all right?” 

“Yes,” Harry says, then raises his arms. “It appears that I am back.” He quickly drops his arms, realizing the tunic he’d changed into to fit his slimmer, smaller frame had gotten tighter, almost indecently so. By the way Eggsy’s eyeing him, however, he doesn’t seem to mind so much. 

"True love’s kiss breaks any curse,” Eggsy says, a bit shyly. “Good job spotting that, Merlin.” 

“Yes, well, Percival owes me five gold pieces,” Merlin says, then waves his hand. “Get away from me, you two. I can see you don’t want me here, and I frankly don’t want to stick around. If you make a mess of this room, you’re cleaning it up.” 

With the door slamming shut behind him, Harry turns to Eggsy, smiling. He feels ridiculously happy, as young as he was only a few moments ago. Eggsy’s hair is still mussed, and he is still a little sweaty, but Harry thinks Eggsy’s the loveliest man he’s ever seen in his life. “Well, I did promise you a drink, didn’t I? Shall we?”

“Yeah, that sounds all right,” Eggsy says, then grins back, standing up on his toes, lips barely brushing Harry’s own. “But first…” 


End file.
